


Justice (Act IV)

by QSF



Series: As We Fall [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Post Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 61,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QSF/pseuds/QSF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Kirkwall is burning, Anders is alive with far too many lives on his conscience and Hawke is none to happy about it. So what now?</p>
<p>Spoilers aplenty, since this story takes place after the final act of the game and chronicles what I would have had happen once the dust had settled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ship rode the waves roughly as it sped north, chased by storms and ill intentions. Hawke lay dead to the world in his bunk, one arm tossed over the side, fingers brushing the floor as the ship rolled. It would be nice to imagine his sleep as dreamless, but after what had happened in Kirkwall, none that walked away would ever sleep easy again.   
  
"Oh for… Wake up, Hawke," came the words, the annoyed Rivani accent penetrating the fog of sleep that had claimed him.   
  
"Go away Isabela," Hawke mumbled, but the rolling ship betrayed him, and a particularly vicious wave nearly sent him tumbling to the floor. "Maker’s breath," he muttered as he reluctantly opened his eyes. "Be honest with me, we are sinking, aren’t we? Why did you have to go and wake me, drowning in my sleep seems to be one of better ways to go these days."  
  
Isabela rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a baby Hawke, if I’d known you’d be this bad a sailor I would never have invited you on my ship, it’s been a week and I still can’t get the smell of puke out of my quarters.”   
  
"At least the smell matches the drapes; I always thought you exaggerated about Castillon’s taste." It took effort, but finally he managed to toss his long legs over the side of the bunk and sit up. "Mustard," he groaned. "We should be so lucky. I’ve seen mold with healthier coloration."  
  
"Don’t throw stones, sweetheart, you’re not exactly looking rosy yourself right now." She tossed the shirt at him with a playful smirk.  
  
"You’re sweethearting me. Are we sinking? Do we have the Qunari on our ass? The Templars?" Hawke winced as he pulled the shirt on. The bruises had faded to a mottled yellow by now, but being battered around by giant living statues left aches of a deeper sort.  
  
"When did me calling you sweetheart turn into a portent of doom?" Isabela asked innocently.  
  
"Since I figured out that you only use it when you want something from me. Usually something that ends up biting me in the ass later."  
  
"Which you are usually too ready to provide. Ass or service. Honestly Hawke, for someone trying so hard to come across as this cynical seen it all rogue with a chip on his shoulder, you are a complete pushover." 

 

"Takes one to know one Isabela." Hawke rubbed his face, the stubble rough against his hands. He felt dirty. Body and soul. "You could have dumped me and Anders once we were free of Kirkwall."

  
"You could have left with the others when we made landfall in Ferelden, but oh no, you had to decide to stick around. I made a promise Hawke, this time I’d stand by you to the end, even if that means shipping you and your crazy boyfriend north."  
  
"He’s not crazy," Hawke retorted, then caught himself. "Alright, maybe he is crazy, but not all the time. And he’s the reason I couldn’t leave with the others."  
  
"Probably a smart choice, Lady Man-Hands looked ready to string him up the mainsail. And Anders looked about halfway ready to let her."  
  
"I know. Overdramatic idiot apostate, he had it all figured out, didn’t he? Take a stand. Start a war. Die a martyr, never caring that…"  
  
"Hawke," Isabela interrupted. "Are you sure I’m the one you should have this conversation with?"  
  
"I can’t very well have it with him," he exclaimed tiredly. "Maker knows I’ve tried."  
  
"Try harder then, it’s not like you to give up on anything or anyone, no matter how much of an idiot they’ve been. Case in point; Merril. Me. Now get some clothes on and get out there and talk to him or else I swear I’ll have you scrubbing the bilge for the rest of the journey."  
  
…  
  
Up on the deck, the wind was strong enough to give him pause, though fresh air really did make his stomach feel better. The sails snapped overhead, and he wondered to himself whether it was safe to have that many up when the sea was this rough, or whether Isabela did it just for the hell of it. He could understand that, she was back on the ocean again, free and with a fast ship underneath her feet. Him, he felt like nothing more than baggage. For not the first time Hawke regretted taking Isabela up on her offer. It had seemed like a fun idea when drinking in the Hanged Man, but actually being out here was an entirely different thing. The sea was vast and unforgiving, and filled with memories of that first, panicked crossing from Ferelden to Kirkwall. Still, no shapechanging witch this time. Yet. Just an idiot apostate. Who was leaning against the railing like he had for the last week, staring out into the waves. Hawke had stopped fearing that he would jump by now, there was no justice in suicide, and even less vengeance.  
  
"So," he started out, his voice filled with false cheer. "Stared long and hard enough that you’ve managed to summon land out of this blasted sea yet?"  
  
"No," Anders replied, in a similarly light and false tone. "I’ve decided to stay away from summoning things. It never works out really. Not in the long run."  
  
"What, so you mean that if you did manage to summon us up some lovely solid rock it would crack, burn, and then sink into the sea as soon as we sat foot on it?" Hawke leaned against the railing next to the mage, thankful for a bit of support against the rolling sea.  
  
"Not that soon, it would probably wait until we were fast asleep in your tent. Never underestimate fate’s sense of irony." His lips quirked in the smallest of smile, revealing long disused wrinkles around his eyes. It had been a long time since he smiled, even longer since he had joked.   
  
"You feeling any better?" Hawke could have kicked himself; it had been a much smoother transition in his head, light and funny and in no way filled with as much worried desperation that came out as soon as he said the words.  
  
"No," came the short answer, Anders eyebrows pulling together again, the frown was back as if it had never left. "And I’m not sure I should."  
  
"Oh for the love of Andraste," Hawke groaned. "We’ve been over this. I’m not going to kill you out of some misguided attempt to make everything right, and I’m not going to just stand by while the man I love is planning to throw the last bits of his life away."  
  
"It’s hardly my life anymore," Anders defended himself, but the words came more from habit than passion. "Justice…"  
  
"…hardly ever comes out anymore," Hawke snapped. "And don’t call him Justice. There was nothing just about that, that was Vengeance."  
  
"You’re right," Anders admitted with a sigh. "It would be funny really if it wasn’t so tragic. I had that conversation with him. With Justice. Back in Amaranthine, before we melded. We were discussing the difference between spirits and demons, and he said that demons were spirits who had fallen prey to their desires while spirits remained pure. I asked him what he wanted, if he didn’t have any desires. He denied that, vehemently, but after I took him into me…" He turned his back on the railing, facing Hawke for what seemed the first time in days. "He has desires now. Terrible desires. I’ve tainted him. He is Vengeance now, and it’s taking everything I have not to go up and ask Isabela to steer us back to port."  
  
"Back to port for what? To lead the revolution? Somehow I doubt that. " Hake raised his voice and stepped closer, close enough that he could just have reached out and grabbed the man. Kissed him. He didn’t. "Are you planning on dying like some fool martyr?"  
  
"A martyr would serve our cause better. Besides, I deserve to die," Anders retorted, raising his voice. At least there was anger there, instead of bleak despair.  
  
"And I deserve to have the man I love treat me like an adult and not an idiot that can’t be trusted making the right decisions." Anger was easier to act on, far easier to just step closer and continue. Maker, was he turning into Fenris?  
  
"I love you Hawke, make no mistake in that, but you’re not a mage." Faced with Hawke’s anger, Anders sank back a little, the wind tearing at his feathered coat, his ponytail already half undone. "You can’t truly understand…"  
  
"Oh shut up Anders, just shut up." Where Anders sank back, Hawke advanced. "My own sister was a mage who now has to live on the run for what you did, I loved Merril like a little sister, and with her tribe dead she’s as vulnerable as Bethany. I loved them both, I promised mother I would take care of them, and instead I’m here on a ship with yet another mage I can’t help but love even if he’s being a royal idiot while the two of them are trying to petition the king of Ferelden for refuge. I’ve had demons trying to tempt me, gone into the fade and killed, yeah, killed a boy just because he begged me to rather than having to face the demons every night he fell asleep. Maybe I’m not a mage, maybe I don’t have the power you lot go tossing around, but by the Maker, I have enough of your baggage that you needn’t mock me for an outsider. I’ll hang as soon as you for this."  
  
"I… I had not realized you felt that way." Anders looked as shocked as Hawke felt; the anger had been as sudden as a lightning strike. Usually they hid their feelings beneath carefully constructed walls of jokes; this left them both painfully exposed.  
  
"Honestly? I hadn’t either." Hawke sighed and turned away, the sea seemed preferable to the face he half wanted to punch, half kiss. "I’m sorry, I just… I love you, but you can be infuriating at times."  
  
"You keep saying that. Love. Can you honestly say that after what I did?" The voice of a man who wanted judgment. Condemnation.  
  
Hawke wasn’t going to give it to him. “After what he did. Not you. And it’s not like I haven’t done terrible things myself. I made Feynriel tranquil. I got Carver and my mother killed. If I would just have stood up to Merril that last time her tribe would still be alive. The Keeper. Everybody. “  
  
"You’ve made mistakes, yes. But mistakes are all that they are." Anders made a motion as if he wanted to reach out and place a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, but he couldn’t go through with it. Not now.  
  
Blowing up the chantry was not a mistake. No oversight. No failure. It was a premeditated act to break the deadlock, to force people to make a choice over the broken bodies of those who tried to compromise. They both knew it. Hawke wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse to kill people for a lofty cause than for selfish reasons like anger or revenge. He wasn’t sure that it mattered, dead was dead. He couldn’t claim to agree with Anders decision, and at times he wondered how much of the blame that lay on his shoulders for never asking what was really going on. Probably a lot of it. Like so many other things. Things he’d like to call mistakes, but wasn’t.  
  
"Fenris wasn’t a mistake," Hawke admitted reluctantly. "When he sided with the Templars… Maker I told him to go with his heart, I thought… I guess I thought that maybe there would be friendship enough there to at least keep him from turning his sword on us. Or respect. Or something. I know you hated his guts, but he didn’t deserve to go out like that. I liked him. He wasn’t half bad for a prejudiced asshole."  
  
Anders looked slightly annoyed, far too aware that in those first months there might have been something more than respect between the former slave and the Ferelden refugee.  ”He would have had me dead or in chains back when I was just the apostate healer of Darktown.”  
  
"Now dead is a bit excessive, but chains I… no, Maker, I can’t even make jokes any more. They fall flatter than Aveline’s." Still, they remained the last refuge for the otherwise damned. By now Hawke suspected that his last words would probably be a snarky remark. He hoped Varric would at least put one in his book.  
  
"And Varric wondered where my sense of humor had gone," Anders joked. "Perhaps you can give him a few pointers to its whereabouts. Or could. If he was still around."   
  
"Yeah, I miss him too. Funny really. Ten years he’s had my back, and now he’s gone. I keep waiting for him to swagger in with a tall tale and a deck of cards. You did know he pretty much kept the Coterie away from your clinic, right?"  
  
"I’m not stupid. I just wonder what he’d make of all this. What stories he would tell."  
  
"Whether you’d be the hero or the villain you mean?"  
  
"Oh you’re the hero Hawke, make no mistake at that. Varric knows how to pick them. But whether I would be the wicked influence who caused your tragic downfall or whether I’d be the handsome apostate lover who opened your eyes to the mages’ plight I’m not so sure."  
  
"At least you can be sure about the handsome part."  
  
"Joke all you like, I feel like I’ve aged a decade in the last few weeks and I haven’t bathed since Ferelden."  
  
"Now at least we know why Isabela goes on about baths all the time, I’d give up my mansion for a hot one right now." If he still had one, Hawke realized with a wince. Two homes lost by now, two families. He hadn’t thought about it before, how much his friends had insinuated themselves and become family over the years. Family you sometimes disagreed with, but family all the same. Maker, did that make Fenris Carver? Two deaths. He was hard on brothers it seemed.  
  
"I still have no idea about the hats though," Anders said and rescued him from the bleak path his thoughts had taken. "Have you ever seen her wear one?"  
  
"No, now that you mention it I haven’t." Hawke paused, turning his head slightly towards Anders who now was now once more leaning against the railing next to him. Smiling. He realized with a start how much he had missed that smile. "I miss this. I miss us."   
  
"I wasn’t sure there was an us. Not anymore." The words were quiet enough that the wind might have stolen them had not Hawke known what to listen for.  
  
"I meant what I said back there," he offered. Words said in the heat of the moment, with their world collapsing around them. Times when you made choices that might not always be right, but true.  
  
"I halfway expected you said that because you figured there was no way were getting out of the Gallows alive with Meredith’s wolves barking at the doors." Anders could still not mention her without anger.  
  
"Yeah, well, we did. And Isabela is more of a terror on a ship than off it, with the way she’s been eying me now that I’ve been sleeping alone, I fear for my virtue." Hawke gave the mage his best Sebastian impression.  
  
"Virtue?" Anders started with a smirk, then switched gears into cautiously hopeful. "I was sure she already had her way with you, she’s going very far out of her way to do all this for a one night stand from half a decade ago."  
  
"She’s not doing it for a lover. She’s doing it for a friend. For her, that’s rarer I think. But don’t tell her I said that," Hawke added in a hushed whisper.  
  
"I won’t. She doesn’t really talk to me much anymore, she just sort of… glowers."  
  
"She’s not good at… emotional stuff, she calls it. And that’s pretty much all about you lately. Honestly, I’m not that good at it either, but we’re still talking so I must be doing something right."  
  
"You… are," Anders admitted with a soft sigh.  
  
"So where do we go from here then? Just promise you won’t retreat into a brooding statue again, because next time I’ll just dump a bucket of seawater over you or something."  
  
"Is that truly the worst threat you can come up with?" Anders asked, eyebrows raised.  
  
"We’re on a ship. In the ocean. I’m strapped for choices, it’s not like I can threaten to tie you to the bed, cover your feet with cream and set the cat on them."  
  
"Poor Serah Mouseron, I wonder what happened to him."  
  
"He’s probably the safest soul in Kirkwall right now. Whoever took over your clinic will still need a good rat-catcher. Darktown never changes."  
  
"But people do." Anders leaned forward a bit, to brace against the rolling waves. "I’m just not sure what I’m changing into."  
  
"You sound more like the man I fell in love with than you have for the last year," Hawke remarked dryly.  
  
"It’s Justi… Vengeance I mean. I suppose you’re right," Anders admitted. "That’s what he is now, through and through. But there’s nothing on this ship to set him off, he’s… well, I suppose sated is a good enough word. For the moment. I try not to think about things I know will upset him, but once we reach shore I can’t make any promises."  
  
"So, I guess we’ll settle into a life as hermits then?" Hawke suggested. "Have Isabela find us a nice little island somewhere and play shipwrecked lovers the next few years?"  
  
"Don’t get me wrong; while I would love your whole tattered, bearded shipwrecked look, I can’t do it. I can’t walk away from what will happen." Anders was serious now, deadly so.  "There will be war across Thedas, and it will be on my shoulders. I should be there. I will be there. Some things are bigger than the two of us."  
  
"Except it’s not the two of us," Hawke remarked sharply. "It’s three. You told me again and again that you and Justice were too entangled, that there was no telling where one begun and one ended, but there is. There is a line. Maybe you can’t see it, but I do. In the way you talk. The way you touch.  And if you’re truly serious about this, about your cause of freedom for mages, then you need to do something about this. Is this a cause of people or of spirits? Because while I can get behind the notion that every man woman and child deserves their freedom and a shot at happiness, mage or not, I’ve got a harder time stomaching being told what to do by a spirit. That’s just an abomination by any other name, and I don’t think I would be alone in that."  
  
"You knew what I was from the start, I never hid…" Anders begun protesting.  
  
"This is not about us," Hawke interrupted. "You said it. It’s bigger than us now. I love you. Despite what you are. Despite what you’ve done. I’m happy to be a hunted fugitive with you, but war? I’d be proud and happy to stand with you, but with Justice?" He made a dismissive gesture with his hand before continuing. "I’m with Isabela there. Justice is simple. The world is complicated. And now that he’s more vengeance than anything else… he wouldn’t care if the world burned. And I happen to like this world, flaws and all."  
  
"What would you have me do then?" Anders asked cautiously, but unlike before it actually was a question, not a statement implying that nothing could be done. Certainty was a different thing out here. "I took a spirit into myself and changed us both. There’s no undoing that."  
  
"Are you sure? You never even wanted to discuss it back in Kirkwall, but was that Vengance or you?" Hawke hoped it was the latter, Maker he hoped it was. "If you say that he’s dormant at the moment, use that time to think. We’ve got another week to Rivain if the weather holds, I suggest you use it. Think. Please. You’re a healer, a Grey Warden, an apostate and an abomination, if there’s anybody better equipped to understand this I would like to meet them."  
  
"I would too," Anders smiled, a bit shakily but there was a look in his eyes that Hawke hadn’t seen for a long time. Hope. "I feel completely out of my depth here."  
  
"It’s the ocean," Hawke replied with a deadpan expression. "I don’t know how Isabela stands it; I keep expecting it to swallow me whole."  
  
"How… how do you do that." Anders shook his head, a disbelieving smile on his lips. "How do you take an absolutely horrific situation and make me think that there might be something good coming out of it at all."  
  
"I started to believe Varric’s tales about me, after that, the rest was easy," Hawke said with a passable imitation of his cocky old smirk.  "In fac…" he never had a chance to finish whatever he had to say, because suddenly he had an armful of mage to contend with.  
  
The kiss was sudden, and in its own way as much (or little) a surprise as that first one in the clinic all those years ago. But no less hungry or tinged with desperation.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW just so you know.

"Are you sure about this?" Anders asked breathlessly as the kiss broke, hands tangled in Hawke’s shirt.  
  
"Not even a little," Hawke replied, his voice shaky with something. Need maybe. Anger probably. Lust definitely.   
  
"If you tell me to go, I will," the mage said with that serious frown on his face, though he made no motion to pull away, or let go of the other man.  
  
"We’re on a ship," Hawke replied, nibbling kisses along the unshaven blonde chin. "In the middle of the ocean. You can’t go anywhere, and even if you could… Maker, why do you put that decision to me, every time?" The last words were hissed angrily into the mage’s ear as he tightened the embrace.  
  
"Because I don’t trust myself to do the right thing by you and stay away," Anders admitted. "I keep meaning to go, and I never get around to it. You shouldn’t love me."  
  
"Did I ever strike you as a man that did what he should?" Hawke pulled back enough so he could look Anders in the eye. "Stop trying to protect me, I…"  
  
The winds shifted suddenly, the ship lurched, and Hawke felt himself loose balance, stumbling towards the railing and the ocean below. The terror was a steel blade to the gut, he could imagine falling, sinking, drowning… and then Anders braced himself enough to keep them from going over.  
  
"You were saying?" the mage teased, though from the look on his face he had been scared as well.  
  
"I take that back," Hawke replied, tugging himself free of the other man. He hated boats, he hated waves. They played havoc with his balance, and being stuck in an embrace made for difficult escapes. "You can protect me any time, from drowning, darkspawn, death and… Maker, I’m babbling, aren’t I?"  
  
"The cabin?" Anders suggested, ignoring the prattle, blonde hair nearly undone by the incessant wind, black feathers ruffled on his coat.  
  
"Maker, yes," Hawke agreed, heading for the door. His legs still unsteady, he looked up, catching Isabela’s amused wink from the forecastle. Maybe she would get off his back now.  
  
…  
  
"I’ve seen you fighting a dozen darkspawn on a narrow ledge with lava below, and I’ve never seen you stumble like that." Anders teased once they were safely inside, Hawke pressed between him and the wall.  
  
"Ledges don’t move," Hawke mumbled, busy trying to undo the straps on the apostate’s coat. "Blast it, you don’t make it easy getting into your pants, you know that, right?"  
  
"You’re thinking of Isabela," the mage drawled. "Besides, who are you to talk, serah spiky bits?"  
  
"I was talking about the attitude, not the clothes." There, he had undone the final strap, pulling off that blasted feathered coat.   
  
"So was I," Anders smirked.  
  
"Cheeky apostate," Hawke muttered, pulling the mage close for another kiss. This time sans feathers.   
  
Maker he had missed this. Had missed being able to just slide his hands under Anders’ shirt, feeling his skin. Merril was right, everything in Kirkwall had been hard and cold, stones and armor, plots, fights and impending doom. He had never realized how much he had relied on Anders being there to keep him centered, especially after his mother had died. Friends were friends, but no matter how fun a round of whiskey and cards at the Hanged Man was, this was different. Different than being with Isabela even, or with what he got when he had visited the Blooming Rose back in the days. He had no idea what it was, love maybe, they kept saying that, but love was just a word, wasn’t it? It was what you did with it that counted. And Hawke was not sure where they stood now by that account, him or Anders.  
  
Well, stood, not really. The mage had slid down on his knees by now, Hawke was not quite sure where his shirt had gone, but his pants had collected in a pile around his feet since Anders seemed to be surprisingly clever with his hands. Magic maybe. Right now he didn’t care, not with what those clever hands were doing. He shifted slightly so he could kick away the pants, and then leaned back against the cabin wall, bracing himself. Maker that felt good, he loved Anders’ banter, but he couldn’t very well complain about his silence. Not like this. Not now. He slid a hand down, wrapping it tightly in that blonde hair, pushing the mage’s head down, deeper.  
  
He was rewarded by a slight choking sound, but no protest. They were both equally hungry for this, for anything to take their minds off what had happened. Right now the future could go fuck itself, this was here. This was now. And then the ship lurched again, nearly sending Hawke off balance.  
  
"Andraste’s ass," Anders cursed, licking his lips a little as he looked up at Hawke with a smile. He seemed to be about to say something else, but instead he got distracted by the view. It was a nice angle for an ogle.  
  
"I think the Maker disapproves," Hawke suggested, caught between need and nausea, the sea-sickness taking a backseat to the desire to have Anders lips back wrapped around him.  
  
"The Maker disapproves of nearly everything," the mage retorted, trailing fingers over Hawke as he got back to his feet. "Haven’t you listened to the chantry?"   
  
"Not if I can help it," Hawke assured, working on stripping the rest of Anders’ clothing by now. "Sebastian tried, and…" he broke off there, pulling Anders in for a kiss, half fueled by desperation. Sebastian. He shouldn’t have mentioned the man that had left Kirkwall vowing to return for Anders’ head.   
  
"It’s fine," Anders interjected as if he had read Hawke’s mind. "Just don’t… stop."  
  
Hawke had no plans to stop. None at all. Parrying the movement of the rolling ship, he dragged Anders over to the bunk. It was either that or the floor, but Maker it was narrow.  He hit his head and swore loudly, causing Anders to laugh.  
  
"For the love of…" He rubbed his head, wincing.  
  
"For the love of what exactly?" asked Anders, amused, sliding his hand down to ease the pain by paying attention to a completely different part of the rogue’s body. Since that seemed to do the trick, he let his mouth follow.  
  
"That. Probably. Maker, don’t stop." Hawke had given up on the bed; the floor was good enough for him. His legs felt shaky for a completely different reason now.  
  
"I have to though, if I want to talk," Anders remarked as he came up for air, pushing into Hawke’s exploring hands.  
  
"Then shut up," came the teasing suggestion.   
  
"How likely is that?" the mage retorted, licking his fingers. "No, I think I should do… this instead." He couldn’t exactly manhandle Hawke, the man was far stronger and fit than he was, but it was fun when allowances were made.   
  
"Maker’s breath, that’s…" Hawke moaned, not exactly wanting to think about where Anders fingers were exploring. Or, well, his body was of a different opinion than his mind, because that wanted to know a lot more. In detail.  
  
"Stop squirming," Anders complained teasingly, shifting his position a bit for a better angle.  
  
"I’m the Champion of Kirkwall, I don’t squirm. Much." The last admission came reluctantly, after he was proven wrong."  
  
"The Champion does a lot of things he doesn’t tell anybody about…" the whisper was hushed, filled with want.  
  
"You’re corrupting me…" Hawke protested, but weakly, coupled with a wince as the fingers were pulled out.   
  
"Enlightening is the word I’d use," Anders teased. "Now just relax and bend over."  
  
"You enjoy this far too much," Hawke pointed out as he moved to obey.   
  
"I am? Then what about this?" The mage reached in and grabbed Hawke, smirking a bit as he felt the man stiffen further in his hand.  
  
"Incidental evidence," came the quick reply. "No… proof at all." Hawke really had no idea why he was continuing to treat this as a contest. It was, as always the jokes that kept them together, both of them terrified, deep down, by the depth of emotion that came when they were serious. Now more than ever. Love was a more frightening thing than magic.  
  
"Maybe we should keep score," Anders mused, draping himself over Hawke to whisper in his ear.   
  
"You suggested that once, it’s still a bad idea." Hawke pressed back a little against the mage, on the verge of begging him to get on with it. But he didn’t. He had his dignity… so far. "Maker’s breath, imagine if Varric had found that out, I’d never live that down."  
  
"What?" Anders asked, raising his voice in concern. "That there’s statistical proof that the Champion of Kirkwall loves being bent over a bed and thoroughly used by some apostate mage? I think ‘Hard in Hightown’ would have been a very different book then."  
  
"You have a dirty, dirty mind. And not just any apostate mage. You’re special." Hawke swallowed, steeling himself for the inevitable.  
  
"You say that just because I can do… this." The mage tensed slightly, the pushed inside, hard. Saliva was a good enough lubricant, but it’d been a while for the both of them.   
  
"Yes," Hawke gasped after he got his breath back. "Yes, that’s exactly why. Now shut up and fuck me."  
  
That was one command Anders seemed far too willing to obey.


	3. 3

The ground shook as the massive statue tore itself free from its plinth. Hawke could see Varric’s lips move as he cursed in disbelief, but the words were drowned in the cacophony of crumbling, tortured stone. Maker, that’s a big one, he thought to himself. It had been a decade since he was struck speechless by the sight of a charging Ogre, frozen in fear as Carver rushed to meet it, always eager to prove himself the better man of the pair. He probably was, Hawke admitted to himself, the good men died young and the bastards carried on. He wondered what that said about him, but at least the stature of his enemies had improved. He very much doubted they could get much bigger than this.  
  
Or faster. The statue lashed out with surprising speed, missing Hawke by a hair’s breadth as the rogue threw himself backwards. The force of the blow splintered the paving stones, shards tearing at his armor. He had felt the rush of air preceding it, like the breath of the Maker himself come to take him home. A second of warning. It had been enough, this time. But death had been such a constant companion lately that he was more angry than shocked.  
  
"Pay attention Hawke," Aveline yelled, her strong voice carrying through the din. She was a figure impossible to ignore, and the statue veered to face her.  
  
For a moment Hawke wondered if she ever feared. If she ever doubted. He had seen her grieve, but giving up? No, that was not Aveline’s thing. But what could even she do about that thing other than distract it? Endure its assaults? For not the first time he felt that cold dagger of fear in his stomach, when faced with something impossible. Though he’d never tell his friends, part of him could understand the Chantry. Could understand the Templars. Magic could do terrible things, against which weapons and courage mattered little. It was a small consolation that this was the work of a Templar, not a mage, aided by whatever unholy powers that had been contained in that idol. Magic was a friend here, not an enemy.   
  
But it still scared the shit out of him.  
  
Varric’s bolts exploded against the statue’s face, momentarily blinding it, and Hawke took that chance to spring into action. He had no idea what to do, not really, how did you fight a giant statue with a pair of knives anyway? Even the rock-wraith in the Deep Roads had a nervous system of sorts, his hands had stung like they had been dipped in fire when he stabbed it, but there had been something there, something that he could disrupt. What was the key here? Meredith? He had lost sight of her on the battlefield, and the statue was too much of a danger to be ignored. But he couldn’t do this alone. He needed help.  
  
"Merril?" he shouted, but the elven girl was nowhere to be seen. Smoke and dust now covered the courtyard, the looming shape of the statue the only thing clearly visible. It moved with an odd, jerky grace, lashing and stomping like an enraged infant. "Varric?" Hawke’s voice cracked a little, but there was no reply, no snarky comeback. "Isabela? Bethany?" No answer came, and now the statue had stopped its mindless rampage, turning towards him.   
  
He could smell the blood. Maker, he could smell it. Pain and rust and old nightmares. He couldn’t move, he stood frozen to the ground as the smoke cleared a little and the statue tossed Aveline’s broken body to the ground. “This is not how it happened,” he whispered to himself, but he was lying. This was happening. Right now. Right here. He could see other bodies scattered around its feet, bloody pulps hardly resembling his friends. But he knew that’s what they were. The statue raised its hand, bringing it down towards him in a vicious blow. He should dodge. He should run. He should climb that bloody behemoth, find a weak point, and tear it apart. He should fight. He knew he should.  
  
But Maker he was tired. He was tired of fighting. Tired of decisions that tore his heart out. He’d lost everything he had tried so hard to build, and here, surrounded by the broken bodies of his friends it felt like it was enough. He was done. He had come to the end of his road. Hawke didn’t close his eyes when the fist bore down on him, and then… abruptly stopped.  
  
The air shimmered blue as the shields held, the statue staggering back, confused.  
  
"Anders!" Hawke exclaimed, relief flooding his heart.   
  
The mage was still alive. He was still here, still fighting, and Maker it was an awesome sight to behold as he with a gesture called down cold enough winds to freeze the behemoth in place, trap it in a column of ice, the very stone itself cracking apart from the cold.  
  
"What?" the apostate asked with a cocky smile. "Did you think I’d let my favorite Champion get smashed to a pulp? Your dog would never forgive me, and he’s far scarier than any statue. Did I ever tell you what he did to my boots after I banned him from our bed?"  
  
Hawke opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Behind the mage a shadow had appeared, and he wanted to scream a warning, wanted to throw a blade, wanted to do something. Anything. But he couldn’t, he was trapped as surely as the statue, helpless to do anything but watch as Meredith stepped forth behind the unsuspecting mage, burying the evil crystal sword deep in his back. There was a moment there, of shock, of realization, and then he finally found the breath to scream.  
  
…  
  
That scream woke them both and sent Hawke tumbling over the edge of the narrow bunk they shared. It took him a moment to realize why he was on the floor, and who it was that actually had screamed.  
  
"Andraste’s knickerweasels," Anders exclaimed as he popped his head out to check on the fate of his lover. "And here I thought I was supposed to be the one with the nightmares." He had summoned a weird bluish glow that hovered over his shoulder, making the shadows dance madly on the walls. The sun was not up yet, and the small cabin swathed in darkness.  
  
"Sorry to break it to you," Hawke replied, trying to get his breath back. "Grey Wardens don’t have monopoly on night terrors." He kept trying to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. The dream still hovered, and he had to take a look around to make sure that there was nothing hiding in the shadows to put a knife in either of them.  
  
"I suppose we have to settle for just having the darkspawn, doom and early death market cornered then," the mage mused, quite openly ogling the naked man on the floor.  
  
"Maybe you need to branch out to attract more recruits," Hawke said, slowly collecting himself and his dignity. Such as it was.  
  
"I tried suggesting that you know," Anders continued. "But kittens are right out it seems, as is an actual sense of humor and political activism."  
  
"Can’t imagine why you left then," Hawke replied dryly. "Are you going to have me sitting on the floor for the rest of the night, or are you going to scoot over so I can get back in?"  
  
"Well, the view is tempting, as is the chance to nurse you back to health if you should catch a cold, but I’m a selfish man. You’ve been out of my bed for far too long as it is."   
  
"Technically it’s Isabela’s bed, since this is her ship," Hawke said shakily, maneuvering himself back in the bunk. It was far too narrow for two people really, but fugitives couldn’t be choosers.  
  
"Technically I doubt this is a bed at all, don’t they call them bunks on ships?" Anders winced as he got an elbow in the side before they finally managed to find some semblance of comfort, his head on Hawke’s shoulder, their legs entwined. "This thing is barely fit for darkspawn."  
  
"If Isabela heard you say that, she’d keel-haul you for insulting her ship." Hawke let out the breath that had been caught in his throat since he woke up. That had been a dream. This was reality. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the alternative.  
  
"Isabela got a proper bed," Anders pointed out. "That’s the perks of the captain’s cabin for you."  
  
"Regretting turning Isabela’s offer down?" Hawke asked jokingly.  
  
"What offer?" Anders said with mock-indignation. "She never flirted with me, perish the thought."  
  
"She never flirted with you? Maker’s breath, I thought she flirted with everybody!"   
  
"Well, except me," he said sadly. "I think Justice made her nervous. She kept checking to see if I was me, or something of that sort."  
  
"Silly Isabela, she ought to know to check for glowy bits."   
  
"Lucky for you she never figured that one out. I might have ended up captivated by our ravishing Rivani pirate and never given you a second thought."  
  
"You wound me," Hawke said with an air of grand suffering about him. "I was captivated enough by her at the start, and I still ended up with you."  
  
"But I’m charming," Anders protested. "You are… well, you."  
  
"Oh, you are going to pay for that," Hawke smiled, rolling over to trap the cheeky apostate underneath him. "You are going to pay very dearly indeed…"  
  
…  
  
Some time later, when the sun was just rising over the horizon, all traces of bad dreams had been banished in the best of possible ways.  
  
"I, for one," Anders gasped, "think I should insult you more often."  
  
"I think I sprained something," Hawke winced, flexing his sweaty shoulder.  
  
"So you can handle ogres and Templars but not one meek apostate?" Anders motioned Hawke to roll over on his stomach, and when he complied, straddled his back so he could massage the offending muscles.  
  
"Meek is not the word I’d use," Hawke groaned. "Maker, that feels good."  
  
"No, ravishingly handsome would probably come closer to the mark." Anders frowned a little now when Hawke couldn’t see it, his hands glowing faintly in the pale dawn light as he found the hidden damage still lingering from their battle against Meredith.  
  
"And loud."  
  
"I will take it to heart that you said and, not or." Ander’s voice had turned a bit distracted as he reached inside to tease the torn muscles together again.  
  
"It’s the same when you fight," Hawke mumbled into the thin mattress. "You keep screaming all these things, as if you wanted to be attacked. To be noticed. Wouldn’t it be smarter to stay quiet and just blast them from a distance?"  
  
"Probably," Anders admitted. "But not so good for morale. That’s why I started doing it you know, I was terrified. Talking big helps with that. I’m a healer, not a fighter. If it was up to me, I’d rather run away, but darkspawn are terribly inconsiderate when it comes to my feelings."  
  
"So let me get this straight," Hawke said, raising his head slightly. "You hate fighting, so you went and joined the Grey Wardens, whose sole purpose is fighting darkspawn."  
  
"I was conscripted," the mage protested and gently pushed Hawke’s head back down before he continued with the massage. "For one reason or another, the Templars had become convinced that I was a Blood Mage. Now me, I think they were just tired of chasing me. It’s a lot easier to run in robes than in armor, and after putting me in solitary confinement for a year after my previous escape from the Circle they were running out of less than horrible punishments and turning to the just horrible ones. The Warden offered me a way out, and like a fool I took it."  
  
"And then you joined up with me," Hawke continued, not letting himself be distracted. "Letting you be dragged back into the Deep Roads, fighting darkspawn, rock-demons and Maker knows what else."  
  
"There I blame you," Anders said firmly. "I couldn’t very well let you traipse off into the unknown, you had no idea how bad things could be down there. And I felt that I owed you. For Karl."  
  
"And then," Hawke continued, "you went and started what might possibly be the largest war in Thedas since the Qunari invaded. Maker’s breath, for a man that says he doesn’t like fighting you’re sure making it hard on yourself to avoid it."  
  
Anders pulled back his hands, watching them in silence before he sighed. “Some things are worth fighting for. Even if I don’t like it. Even if it kills a lot of…”  
  
"Don’t." Hawke interrupted. "I’m sorry. Let’s… just have this moment. Just us. No causes. No fears for the future. We land in Llomerryn tomorrow, that’s soon enough for worries and lamentations."  
  
Soon enough to face the uncertain future that their life had become.


	4. 4

If nothing else, at least one mystery had been solved by their arrival in Llomerryn, Hawke thought to himself: Isabela’s love of hats and lack of wearing them. That had at least been the case back in Kirkwall, where the sun competed with massive walls, mountains and the cloudy sky. In Kirkwall a warm spot on a sunny afternoon was something to be relished. Drier than Ferelden to be sure, but then again, what country wasn’t? Here in Rivain the sun shone mercilessly from a sky the color of a courtesan’s best dress. Hawke had never seen that particular shade of blue anywhere else, and at first he had relished the novelty. Relished that is, until the first night when he found himself reddened and feverish, begging Anders for some balm to ease his suffering while Isabela simply laughed and offered to buy him a hat of his own the next day. You simply didn’t walk around without your head covered in Rivain, at least not if you didn’t want to the sun-sickness.  
  
Anders had teased him for a lobster, and truth be told, Hawke felt like one of those hapless creatures, boiled and served at some fancy Hightown dinner, surrounded by nobles with strange cutlery. This city was unlike anything he had ever seen before, though that was not particularly impressive since he had just seen Kirkwall and Highever, but even Anders had looked a bit out of his depth those first few days. Maker, he had felt like a Lothering bumpkin once more, bereft of reputation he was nothing more than another southerner down on his luck. Still, his friendship with Varric and Isabela hadn’t been for naught, he was no naive fledgling to be picked clean by pickpockets, fortune tellers and street vendors. Now that he had been here for a week he was even growing comfortable with their surroundings, and with the fact that he was back on dry land.  
  
Back with Anders. 

  
Things had been… better since their argument and sweaty reconciliation on the ship. Better. Not good. You didn’t mend a mess like this in a few weeks, but they had a start at least. A start and a purpose. Separating spirit from man. Hawke leaned back against the shadowed wall with a sigh, watching Anders deal with the seller of ancient potions and parchment that he suspected was about as authentic as the pinches of Andraste’s ashes that were hawked in the Kirkwall markets. The mage had better luck with the sun than Hawke; he was tanning, not burning, his hair growing paler in the sun. In deference to the heat, he had even bought Rivani robes, leaving his black leather and feathers back on Isabela’s ship. He looked younger, sunnier and the smile came easily again. But Hawke could see the pain and rage surface when he didn’t think anybody was watching. Anders was a bomb ready to go off, and Hawke often wondered if he stayed with him out of love or some misguided sense of duty to avoid having anything like Kirkwall happening again.  
  
Isabela was still in port, it had been years since she had been here last, so she had contacts to meet and contracts to renew. One of her first acts had been to fence a small stack of valuables that Hawke and Anders felt that they could part with. He felt naked without the rings and amulets, but the enchanted trinkets had been expendable, and fetched them a good price. He had no plans to fence his armor or weapons, he suspected he would need them soon enough.  
  
"Andraste’s holy britches," Anders swore as he stomped back to Hawke. "These people take their haggling seriously." He was pushing a carefully wrapped parchment into the sleeve of his robe, looking like he was half prepared to walk back and demand the return of his money.  
  
"But you found what you needed?" Hawke asked, giving the vendor a nasty glare over the mage’s shoulder.   
  
"I did. But don’t look too happy," Anders scowled. "The man had no idea what he had stuffed into his wares, if I had let on what it really was he would have raised the price beyond what we could afford. I’m elated," he growled angrily.  
  
It was all that Hawke could do to keep a straight face as they walked away; he kept sneaking glances at Anders, who seemed to be imitating some particularly grumpy old man, to the point of absurdity. “You can stop making that face now,” he said at last. “Maker, what’s that supposed to be? You looked like you had eaten something bad and were desperate for a place to take a dump.”  
  
"Not far from it actually," smiled Anders, and rubbed his face a little to get rid of the scowl. "There was this dwarf I knew, Oghren, a fellow Grey Warden believe it or not. He used to make that face. It works better with a beard though. Do you think I should grow a beard? A proper one I mean?"  
  
"Are you planning to turn into a dwarf for all our business deals? Makes you miss Varric, doesn’t it?"  
  
"Sunlight makes me miss Varric," Anders lamented. "And rain. And nighttime. And streets. And people… Maker yes, I miss him, I’m not cut out for this!"  
  
"You seemed to be doing an alright job back there."  
  
"I did. But much more of this and our purse will be emptier than a Chanter’s panties, and we’ll have to move back on Isabela’s ship."  
  
"I’ll find some way to make some money before it comes to that," Hawke assured. "I’d rather go back to being hired muscle for smugglers than stay on a ship longer than needed."   
  
"What is it with you and boats anyway?" Anders asked, weaving through the crowd in the approximate direction of the tavern where they had agreed to meet up with Isabela.  
  
"Boats I don’t mind," Hawke shrugged and adjusted his hat a bit for shade. "It’s the water. The deep, deep water. I… can’t swim," he confessed after a moment of hesitation.  
  
"The mighty Champion of Kirkwall can’t swim?" Anders sounded as if he could hardly believe his ears. "That’s grand… no, wait, that’s improbable! You’re Ferelden, you can’t go five miles there without stumbling over a lake or a river, I should know."  
  
"The stumbling I have no problem with, nor the sinking. Just never got around to it I suppose. The streams around our farm were shallow, and climbing trees were always more fun for me."  
  
"We can’t have this," Anders teased, putting a protective arm around Hawke’s shoulders. "Next lake we pass, you’re getting wet. I have on good authority I’m a good swimmer, swam across an entire lake once, I co…" He broke off his tirade as the sun glinted on heavy silverite armor, sending his hand unbidden to his staff.  
  
Hawke could see the jovial mask slip, revealing the man that had been willing to kill innocents to start the revolution underneath. Dangerous. It was so easy to forget that. “Calm down,” he urged, there was no blue shine yet, but he didn’t want to take any chances. “I haven’t seen any Templars yet, Rivain is not one of the Chantry’s strongholds.”  
  
"Probably too hot for all that armor," Anders joked with a grave face. "I’m sorry love, reflexes."  
  
The armored man passed them by without incident, Orlesian noble from the look of things, and probably fresh off the boat. Hawke almost felt sympathy for him, come nightfall the man would be baked and burnt for his vanity’s sake. “Let’s get out of the sun,” he suggested, “Isabela should return soon with the news.”  
  
"What are the odds that they will be good ones?" Anders asked, putting his staff back over his shoulder.  
  
"Better if you don’t keep saying things like that, didn’t Varric teach you anything?"  
  
"You know me, I like to tempt fate," the mage shrugged.  
  
That was probably far too true for both of them, Hawke thought to himself.  
  
…  
  
"I could grow to like it here," Hawke remarked to Isabela as he sat down in the crowded tavern. "No Templars. No Chantry."  
  
"We don’t take the Chantry very seriously," Isabela said with a shrug, downing the whiskey that had been set before her. "Not like drinking and gambling. Bring a Templar here and his head would explode."  
  
"This place grows on me by the minute," Anders laughed, but didn’t sit down. "Now if you’ll excuse me, my stomach is not quite in agreement with the rest of me about the virtues of this place."  
  
Hawke and Isabela watched him depart for the outhouse, exchanging looks once the mage’s back was turned.  
  
"He seems better," Isabela said, dropping the smile and pouring them each a drink.   
  
"It’s more of an effort than he lets on," Hawke said. "Wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Templar discussion that drove him off, not his stomach. He nearly blew up on an innocent Orlesian nobleman earlier. Thought he was a Templar."  
  
"Innocent and Orlesian? Will wonders never cease?" Isabela swirled the whiskey in her glass, then gave Hawke a sharp look. "He is an accident waiting to happen."  
  
"Not going to argue with you there, that’s the reason we’re here. If what you told us is true." Hawke grimaced a bit and pulled off his hat to wipe his forehead. He’d gotten used to the feel of sweat dribbling down his back, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.  
  
"Would I lie about something that important," Isabela said indignantly. "Wait, don’t answer that, the important part is that I haven’t. Not this time."  
  
"It just sounds so implausible that there might be mages out there, living as respected parts of their community, allowing themselves to even be possessed."  
  
"Not every place is a backwater like Ferelden or the Free Marches," Isabela laughed. "You’re travelling north now Hawke, this was a civilized country back when your ancestors were barbarians living in the forest with their dogs."  
  
"That was just a few generations ago," Hawke said, touching the tattoo on his cheek. "Some of us are still proud of that heritage, dogs, tattoos and all. Besides, spirit possession doesn’t sound terribly advanced to me."  
  
"Oh hush you; the important thing is that they might actually be able to help making your crazy boyfriend… well, less crazy."  
  
"I’ve been meaning to ask," Hawke said, sipping his drink as they waited for Anders to return. "Did you ever sleep with him back in Ferelden? You talked about that time in the brothel, and…"  
  
"Ah, this is precious," Isabela interrupted. Her smirk had grown wide and voracious, reminding Hawke of a particularly hungry cat. "Are you actually jealous?"   
  
"I would call it curious," Hawke said, trying his best to look unfazed.  
  
"Then ask him," came the amused reply.  
  
"I did. Sort of. He claims you never flirted with him because you were afraid of Justice."  
  
"Not afraid exactly, just…" Isabela covered her hesitation by pouring them both more drinks. "Here people let spirits possess them to help their villages. Spirits have answers. Power. But the spirit is in control when it happens, not the mage. That Anders is still… Anders after all this time sounds… implausible."  
  
"He is a man," Hawke assured. "Not a spirit." He wished he was as certain as he sounded. What if he was wrong? What if Anders was just the mask that Justice choose to wear?  
  
"Oh, I don’t deny that, he’s too much of an idiot not to be a man."  
  
"Are you talking about me?" Anders asked in a light tone as he appeared, pulling out his chair.  
  
"He hears idiot and immediately assumes it concerns him, I think I will rest my case", Isabela chuckled.  
  
"Now there, I was thinking more of man, a manly man in fact" Anders said, making a grab for the glass that awaited him. "But fair enough." He had the look of a man missing out on a secret, and hating every second of it.  
  
"I was just giving Hawke a few pointers to spice up your love life," she lied.  
  
"I was not aware that it needed… spice," the mage said with a wounded look.  
  
"Hence the reason for my talk," Isabela smirked menacingly.  
  
"On a more serious note," Hawke interrupted, only to have them both give him equally amused looks. "What?" he protested. "I can be serious"  
  
"Sometimes," Anders admitted. "In the face of death or certain doom."  
  
"Really?" Isabela said with disbelief. "I must have missed that; the Hawke I remember couldn’t even face down the Arishok without pondering aloud whether those huge swords were compensating for something."  
  
"Oh shut up you two," Hawke protested. "Did you manage to set up a meeting or not?"  
  
"What do you take me for? Am amateur? Of course I did. They’ve agreed to a meeting tomorrow night, provided the cards are favorable."  
  
"It’s really happening, isn’t it?" Anders sounded nervous enough to not even make a joke about cards, and how they usually favored him.  
  
"Better believe it," Isabela said, reaching into her cleavage, rummaging around a bit before she pulled out a golden chain with some coins attached. "Here, take this amulet, that should give you safe passage through the barrier."  
  
Both men looked at the small piece of jewelry where it rested on the table, still warm from her body. As one man, they reached for it, Hawke beating Anders barely.  
  
"Don’t loose it," Isabela cautioned, these people don’t go around giving second chances if you blow them off. They’re more of the wrath and torment variety."  
  
"Don’t worry," Hawke assured. "I’m not in the habit of having my pockets picked."  
  
"That’s not what I’ve heard," she smirked.  
  
"Oh thank you Varric for choosing not to embellish the details of our first meeting," Hawke complained.   
  
"We’re friends," Isabela smirked. "Not audience. He’s given us all the dirty details."  
  
"Maker I hope not," said Anders and Hawke in unison.


	5. Chapter 5

The mist gradually grew thicker, moving in on all sides until their surroundings were reduced to menacing shapes, moving strangely in the oddly windless air. The fisherman had dropped them off this afternoon, promising to return to pick them up in three days for the promise of more coins. Since then they had walked, following Isabela’s crude map, and the path that snaked inland. Here, the country was broken and torn apart; the sea seemed to be eroding the land, giving rise to the wasted plains the locals called the Saltmarsh. At high tide, the waters would flood the entire area, and even now the ground was filled with muddy hollows smelling of rot and brine. Everything that grew, grew stunted, and everything that moved was covered by the mist.  
  
"Why a marsh is all I ask myself," Anders lamented loudly. "You’d think that once in a while mysterious old mages would feel like settling someplace nice, like a cottage by the ocean, or a nice townhouse."  
  
"At least we’re on the right track," Hawke said, halting as the path was blocked. Well, blocked might be a bit of an understatement, the pole that had been planted in the middle of it would not be that hard to move around. It was the painted skulls and bones that adorned it that gave him pause. "I’d take a wild guess and say this is our barrier."  
  
Anders took a look around; they could just about make out other similar poles in the mist, marking what appeared to be a rough circle. “I think you’re right,” he said quietly, reaching out to brush his fingers through the air. The mist lit up where he touched it, revealing a slightly greenish sheen that was the barrier’s true form.  
  
"Let’s hope that Isabela’s amulet will do the trick then," Hawke said, pulling it out of his pocket. The coins jingled hollowly, they had taken on a different sheen here in the marsh, less gold and more green. "What am I supposed to do with it you think?"  
  
"Just give it a bit of a wave and shove it through the barrier, that usually works." Anders tried to sound cheerful, but he had his staff in hand. Just in case.  
  
"Is that how they teach you magic in the circle? Just do a bit of a wave and throw some fireballs?" Hawke said, reaching out towards the greenish barrier. The coins started to move, almost of their own accord, and he could feel the amulet getting pulled forward.   
  
"They spend more time teaching us how not to do stuff," Anders replied, stepping close to Hawke as the barrier faded into a roundish gate, big enough for the pair. "You don’t need to teach young mages to set things on fire, that comes naturally, like pimples and your voice breaking. It’s not setting fire to your bed when you’ve had a nightmare that’s the challenge."

  
Hawke didn’t reply to that, instead he stepped through the opening, followed closely by the mage. Not for the first time he wondered if their family had simply been lucky that Bethany never had many ‘accidents’, or whether it was because their father had done a good job of teaching her. What if he hadn’t been around? What if he had died earlier? Would they have woken up one morning with their house on fire? Maybe in some cases the Templars had a point. Mages needed training; the circles were just not the way to go about it. At least not like in Kirkwall. Not that he ever would discuss this with Anders, not anymore. He’d grown increasingly worried about rousing Justice.  
  
The path continued onwards, but the ground turned drier as they moved uphill, and the stunted bushes turned to twisted trees. Hawke didn’t feel any different than he had before they crossed the barrier, but Anders was on edge. Though the mists had thinned as they moved for higher ground, the shapes out there remained. More than once he had turned around, thinking that somebody was following them, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Nothing. There was always nothing there.  
  
"Maker, the Veil is thin here," Anders whispered, pace slowing as the path widened into an expanse of flat ground atop the hill, surrounded by standing stones.   
  
"Well, at least we have the amulet to protect us," Hawke started, interrupted when the ground around them begun to crack and burst as skeletal hands clawed through. "Oh great, I knew I shouldn’t have said that." He shoved the amulet back in his pocket, pulling out his daggers instead.  
  
"If you knew it, why did you say it then?" Anders asked, touching the tip of his staff to the ground, faint blue shields erupting around the pair of them. "Did you wake up today thinking, ‘oh grand, I haven’t had a fight in weeks, I think I need to go find some darkspawn to annoy.’"  
  
"Undead, not darkspawn," Hawke corrected, kicking the head off one of the skeletal warriors before it had emerged fully from the ground. "And I wasn’t spoiling for a fight."  
  
"Same difference," Anders said, frowning in concentration. His staff and hand moved smoothly as he collected will and magic in preparation. "And you were. What about the bar yesterday? You broke a bottle over that poor man’s head."  
  
"He was insulting… well, something. Someone." Hawke honestly couldn’t remember anymore, he had been drunk, the man had been annoying, and Maker’s breath Anders was right. He had been spoiling for a fight. And from the look of things, he would get one.  
  
"Now these I wouldn’t mind you fighting," Anders said, raising his staff to the skies as fire erupted around the hilltop, swathing the reanimated corpses in flames. There were no screams of pain or confusion; the skeletons continued marching as they burned. "Any time now, Hawke."  
  
"Patience love," Hawke said, scanning the battlefield. It was just the two of them now, no Aveline, no Varric, no infuriating Fenris taking his anger out on magical constructs. Just the two of them. "These are just distractions."   
  
Fighting back to back with the mage still gave him the shivers. To be that close to those powerful energies and not be consumed by them, well, he wouldn’t lie. It was a thrill. Both in the good and the bad ways. By the time the corpses reached them, they were on the verge of falling apart from the magical onslaught, making them easy enough to crumble with a well placed kick, or severing their spine with a stab. But he hadn’t spent the last ten years idle, he knew how these creatures worked by now. First the horde, depleting their energy, drawing them out of position, testing their strength. And then, just as they were ready to celebrate an easy victory, the next wave would come. The dangerous ones.  
  
There was a whooshing sound, and the air filled with arrows. Hawke dropped and rolled, the shafts thumping into the ground around him, while the ones aimed for Anders burned before they hit the mage. “The archers!” he shouted. “Deal with them!”  
  
"I’m more worried about those massive hammers," Anders shouted back, his staff crackling with energy that hardly seemed to touch the two armored warriors that lumbered towards them.  
  
"I’m on it," Hawke said, smiling despite himself. Normally it would have been simple, Aveline would have been there, drawing their attention, leaving them open for him. Now it would be more of a match. Not that he minded.  
  
Dodging another volley of arrows, he raced across a battlefield now lit by flickering fires. Every fallen skeleton was burning in their own miniature pyre, illuminating the dusk. The first warrior slowed, joints creaking, armor freezing over. Hawke sent a grateful thought to Anders, but didn’t dare to look back at the mage. He was on his own for now. The hammer moved with agonizing slowness, and it was child’s play to drop, roll past the lumbering creature, and bury both daggers in its back. There was little satisfaction fighting bones rather than flesh, but no bad conscience either. These creatures were dead, and he was just giving them their last rights. The enchantments melded with the blades were disruptive, downright corrosive when it came to constructs like these, and a few more quick stabs had torn apart whatever enchantments that made it rise and sent it tumbling to the ground, a collection of semi-frozen parts. He hardly managed to dodge the next blow.  
  
"Maker’s breath this one is fast," he cursed, leaping back, his arm still tingling from the near miss. "Got any help to spare Anders?"  
  
"Little busy here," the mage replied. He was surrounded by a wall of semi-frozen corpses, all advancing very slowly at him as he retreated, blasting them every step of the way. The archers were gone, but more skeletons were rising out of the ground around them. It was only a matter of time before they would be overrun. "Find the center, there must be a focal point here, this is no random infestation."  
  
"Stay safe," Hawke said, not sure if the mage would hear him over the din of battle. Not that it mattered. He was right; this was not just some tomb-curse reaching out for victims. There was something malicious here, someone…  
  
There! He spotted a darkly armored figure striding out behind the stones, moving straight for Anders. The mage was a magnet for all things dark and dangerous, Hawke supposed it came with the territory, had he been an enemy he would have gone straight for the mage as well. Too dangerous to leave alone. Lucky for him, he had friends to watch his back. Pulling out a smoke bomb to conceal his escape, he made a run for the new threat. He would have to trust Anders to deal with the rest.  
  
"See something you like?" Hawke shouted, causing the creature to turn its head a moment before Hawke buried his dagger in its armpit, where no armor could protect it. Cold. Freezing. Blast it, a Revenant. Cold as ice and hard as stone, and filled with malicious intelligence. This was all they needed. Pulling his dagger free he rolled to the side, the wicked sword gracing his armor as he did so. Fast. Or maybe he was getting slower. Older. Don’t think about that now, he chided himself as he moved in again, keeping one step ahead of the sword, so close to the armored figure that his skin ached from the unearthly cold.  
  
That’s how you fought something with reach and strength; you stayed close, too close for efficient swings, and moved too fast for it to grab you. Dagger reach. It was like dancing, but where a failure meant death instead of bruised toes. He had to admit Anders was right. He loved this. Most of his blows glanced off the armor, but enough found their ways through chinks and cracks that the Revenant was growing increasingly agitated. It was a dangerous game, pissing off the powerful, but the angrier it got, the greater the chance it would leave him an opening to dig his daggers in and sever its neck, puncture a spine or disrupt the magical energies that held it enough to dissipate the spirit. The spirit. Hawke didn’t want to think about it, but if things were left unchecked, was this what Anders might become? A dark creature stalking Thedas, seeking the death of Templars and the faithful?  
  
The blow hit Hawke hard; Anders’ shield the only thing that kept the sword from cleaving straight through his armor instead of just stealing his breath away as he was knocked to the ground. He fell, hard, tasted blood in his mouth as he struggled for air. A shadow shifted above him and he rolled, more from instinct than anything else. The sword buried itself deeply in the ground next to his head, glowing acrid green. That gave him enough time to get to his feet, spitting blood. Maker’s breath, his back hurt. Maybe he’d cracked a rib, maybe he was bleeding. No time to think. He pushed forward, through the pain, sending a smoke bomb in the face of the creature, distracting it enough so he had a clear shot at its back. The daggers went in, twisting, but to no avail. The thing kept coming.  
  
It felt like fighting the Arishok again, Hawke hated to admit it, but he tended to rely on his friends a bit too much. He worked best from the shadows, and out here in the open like this… he was not at his best. Or maybe his best had been three years ago. Maybe he was over the hill, and it would just get tougher from here on, until finally he would meet something that wouldn’t go down and…   
  
…the world exploded in flames, flames that somehow didn’t touch him.  
  
"I would appreciate you finishing this fast," Anders shouted, fending off skeletons with his staff. The mage was in as bad position as he was, but had found the time to help the rogue out anyway.  
  
Hawke could feel a stream of vigor running through his veins; the world was all of a sudden sharper, clearer. He could literally see the enchantments holding the Revenant together, the spirit clinging to its corpse. Suddenly the sword moved slow enough to sidestep, the world speeding up as he leapt on the armored warrior, burying both daggers in the eye slit of its helmet. There was a roar and an explosion, only halfway in the physical world, but still powerful enough to knock Hawke back. He landed in a roll, on his feet in an instant, sending a knife into the head of one of the last skeletons that had been menacing Anders.  
  
"Thank you," Hawke said, hands shaking as the borrowed vigor left them. He’d be bruised, but thanks to Anders it wouldn’t be worse.  
  
"Anytime," the mage said, voice shaky and hollow. "Maker, I…" there were faint bluish cracks appearing on his form, making Hawke take a step back.  
  
"You’re glowing again," he warned, cursing his own stupidity. If he had been faster, Anders wouldn’t have had to exert himself to this extent, to pull on the spirit for healing. To risk waking Justice. Vengeance.   
  
"I know, I…" Anders said, voice shifting into the unearthly echo that heralded Justin, but the mage clenched his fists and shouted to the heavens "No, you stay out of this, there is nothing for you here!" The last words, cracked though they were, were fully human once more. The glow stopped, leaving the mage to sink to his knees in the blackened circle of once human remains that surrounded them.  
  
"Anders?" Hawke asked cautiously, hunching down in front of the mage.  
  
"It’s me," came the admission, shakily. "He… Maker, he almost…"  
  
"He almost what?" Hawke asked, reaching out to brush a hand over Anders stubbled cheek.  
  
The mage flinched away. “Never mind,” he snapped, but tiredly. “He’s gone now. But you are right. It’s not Justice anymore. Just Vengeance.” His eyes avoided Hawke’s as he climbed back to his feet, leaning on his staff as if the fight had aged him decades.  
  
"So this was a whole bunch of nonsense," Hawke said, looking around the hilltop. "Seems like someone had a laugh at Isabela’s expense."  
  
"Or on yours," said a strange voice, old and accented. "Or no laugh at all, just a test." The old elf woman appeared to have been sitting on a nearby stone all along, wizened and grey like the tormented trees.  
  
"So, did we pass?" Hawke asked, daggers ready just in case. "Don’t keep us in suspense."  
  
"You are alive, are you not?" came the reply, and the old elf rose from her resting place.  
  
"Funny friends you have," Anders joked, trying to get his bearings again. "Sorry we had to take them apart."  
  
"No friends of mine, shemlen" the elf smiled, leaning on her staff. "I was hired to rid this place of them, and you performed admirably."  
  
"You… had us do your dirty work?" Hawke sheathed his daggers, rolling his eyes. "Maker’s breath, I thought Isabela was unique. Apparently, there must be something in the water."  
  
"I was told of your predicament," the old woman continued with a look at Anders, ignoring Hawke. "I wanted to see how you dealt with your possession, and I needed payment for the service I am about to provide. This provided an opportunity for both."  
  
"Service?" Anders said eying the old woman suspiciously. "As long as I get to keep my robes on, I suppose it is alright."  
  
"Oh aren’t you a cheeky one," she said, walking up to the mage. "Still holding on to what you are."  
  
"What are you going to do?" Hawke asked, stepping closer. "We’re here for answers, not…"  
  
"Shush," the old woman said, gesturing slightly and the ground shone green beneath Hawke’s feet. "You are inconsequential, human, wait here for your lover."  
  
Hawke wanted to protest, but he couldn’t get a single word out. He couldn’t move. He was frozen in place as securely as if he’d been encased in ice instead of in gentle greenish energy. He could see Anders face contort in rage, he could see him raising a hand to dispel the glyph that held him, and then he couldn’t see anything. The mists had swept in, taking both of the mages along, leaving him behind.   
  
Abandoned.


	6. Chapter 6

The fire crackled as Hawke fed it sticks, the flames dancing off the standing stones. The paralysis had worn off before something unnamable had woken up and eaten him, but that didn’t make him feel any better about the situation. Anders was gone, only the Maker knew where, lost in the mist with some strange old elven woman. And he had been left here. Inconsequential. Hawke tossed another stick on the fire, grimacing angrily. He already felt out of his depth when dealing with magic, and this wasn’t exactly helping. It reminded him of when he had been little, watching his father and Bethany practice their magic in the forest. He had snuck along with Carver, and had stuck around watching what they were doing while his younger brother grew bored and went off to hunt rabbits. He’d been jealous then, he had been too young to understand the dangers inherent in being a mage. So when he saw his sister light a fire with her hands and his father douse it with snow when it went out of control, there could be only one reaction. He wanted to be able to do that. So badly. In comparison, being good with a knife or a bow seemed unimpressive. This balance of power changed as the years passed, by the time they were teenagers, Bethany was the one complaining that she couldn’t go dancing with the other girls, and that she had to stay at home and be careful and safe. Always careful. Always safe. And then their father died, and everything changed once more. Hawke had to step up and assume his responsibilities, the chief among them being keeping his family safe. Grand job he did with that.  
  
And so, one by one they had all been taken from him. Carver, who died because he could never really accept that he couldn’t beat his bigger brother in a brawl, despite being the taller and stronger of the pair. Mother, who died because he had paid more attention to what went on in the city than what was going on in her life. Bethany who had been taken to the circle because he had tried to keep her safe and out of the Deep Roads, who now was a wanted fugitive on account of him and his lover. No, keeping people he loved safe was not something he was very good at, Hawke concluded.  
  
The wind shifted, and he could smell the distant ocean. He had made his camp inside the stone circle in defiance of the ancients who had held this place sacred. If they had more spirits or undead that guarded the place, let them come. He’d profane this place all he wanted and damn the consequences. He wanted something to kill right now, a face to scream at, an argument to have. Something. Anything. The night was far too quiet. And he was far too alone. Part of him wondered what Varric was doing right now, whether he was getting free drinks in a tavern somewhere, telling the story of the downfall of the Champion of Kirkwall. Hawke smiled a little to himself, pulling out a whetstone to sharpen his throwing knives. Someday maybe he’d hear the stories himself.  
  
Hope was the last thing to abandon a man it seemed. And sometimes, just sometimes, the world did redeem the faithful. The blue shine in the center of the stone circle was faint enough that Hawke didn’t notice it at first, but it grew to a blinding glow within moments. He scrambled backwards to take cover from the inevitable explosion, but instead of a searing blast, a bedraggled mage dropped to the ground before him.   
  
"Anders," Hawke shouted, there was no trace of the elven woman, which was most likely very lucky for her.  
  
"Andraste’s flaming knickers," Anders coughed, getting to his feet just in time to be caught in a Hawke bear hug.  
  
"You’re back, Maker’s breath, I died a little inside when she took you." Hawke let the mage go, suddenly a bit embarrassed by the force of his emotions. It was just so rarely he had a chance to actually get someone back. Half of him had already been prepared for Anders to be lost forever.  
  
"You have a fire? Good," the mage shivered. "I’m cold, Maker, I haven’t been this cold since I swam across Lake Calenhad."  
  
Hawke helped the man sit down, draping a blanket over the shivering shoulders. The thin Rivain robes were soaked by what he guessed was sweat, the ponytail undone so the blonde hair was spilling down his face. He looked a miserable figure, far worse even than after he nearly killed that mage girl in the tunnels under the Gallows.  
  
"Take your time," Hawke offered, sitting down on the opposite side of the fire. Anders hadn’t responded to his touch, so he supposed he might just need to give the man some space.   
  
"Time, that’s funny. Like it’s my time. Like I have any choice in the matter." Anders didn’t look very amused, the firelight sliding along the bones of his face, waking shadows there that Hawke wasn’t sure he liked.   
  
"Speak sense man, could she help you or couldn’t she?" Hawke couldn’t help it, half of him wanted to move over to comfort the mage, half of him wanted to run for the hills. Funny how often he felt like that lately.  
  
"Oh she couldn’t help me. Well, a little. Not much. I’m too much of an idiot to be helped apparently." Anders reached out towards the fire, the flames dancing around his fingers, playing with him.  
  
"She must have you confused with someone else," Hawke offered. "No, wait, too much of an idiot do sound like you."  
  
Anders laughed, a hollow little sound that all the same made him look more like himself. “You’re funny. I love that about you. You kept me sane, you know? For all those years. Made me remember that the world could be funny. Even when it was horrible. You made me hope.”  
  
"Gallows humor," Hawke shrugged, trying not to look as worried as he felt. "I never could get the hang of being grim and threatening."  
  
"She took me into the fade," the mage said abruptly. "I warned her. I warned her what might happen. What I had become. But she did it anyway. Why do people never listen to me?"  
  
"Because sometimes you’re an idiot," Hawke offered. "Someone has to be the sane one around here and talk you down from your crazy."  
  
"I… I know, and I thank you for that. Without you, this would be far worse. But you really should have listened when I told you I would break your heart."  
  
"You did break it," Hawke admitted. "Guess you didn’t count on the fact that broken hearts can be mended."  
  
Anders looked a little shaken at that, lowering his gaze, hidden behind the hair. “Some things can’t be mended.”  
  
"So she was no help then," Hawke sighed.  
  
"She… showed me some things. Things I had suspected but didn’t know for sure. The people here… they do converse with the spirits. At times they even allow themselves to be possessed, but never permanently. It’s not meant to be, Justice fascination with the mortal form, and his wish to be a part of the world outside the fade… that’s not a good thing for a spirit."  
  
"I didn’t think it was, but what do I know?" Hawke kept watching the mage, trying to get rid of the feeling of unease that had settled in his stomach. No such luck.  
  
"That’s what demons do," Anders continued, talking to himself as much as Hawke. "They are jealous of our bodies, of this world of flesh and bone and desire. That’s why they possess us, why they hunt for hosts. Justice… was a righteous spirit. But his desires turned him into something that might as well be a demon."  
  
"His desires. Not just your desires then?" Maybe the desire for justice wasn’t too different than pride or hunger when it came down to it, Hawke thought to himself.  
  
"I am partly to blame I’m sure," Anders sighed, "but from what she said, for Justice to even suggest such a thing he must have been corrupted already. Being contained in me only hastened the process."  
  
"Well, that’s… a good thing, right?" Hawke asked, leaning forward to try to catch the Mage’s gaze. "You’re not the weak corrupted mage that turned a noble spirit evil after all."  
  
"He’s not evil, technically. He just… wants vengeance. And there my feelings fuel him. My rage gives him focus." Anders shied away from Hawke’s prying eyes, hiding his head in his hands.  
  
"Well, we’ll just have to make sure not to give him any Templars to slaughter for a while," Hawke joked. "We’ll stay away from the south until we find a way to…"  
  
"You don’t understand," Anders said, desperation tingeing his voice. "The Templars are only part of it now. He started a revolution, a righteous battle for the right of mages everywhere. He wanted this; he wanted to lead the fight, or to go down in flames. He wanted this more than me, a human, can want things. Spirits are not like us, they are creatures of absolutes, not doubts and compromise. He had his grand finale planned, and you robbed him of it."  
  
Hawke swallowed, watching emotions flicker across the mage’s face. Suddenly things were beginning to add up, and he didn’t like what he was seeing, not one bit. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked quietly.  
  
"It’s you Hawke," Anders confessed. "He wants vengeance on you now. You stole me from his task; you corrupted me, kept me human. I love you, and he hates that. He cannot understand it, and he wants you gone. Dead."   
  
"Him and half of the Free Marshes," Hawke said with a shrug he had to force. His stomach was a clump of frozen coal.  
  
"You have to go," Anders continued, voice a low, desperate ramble. "I can’t have your blood on my hands too, if there’s anybody I want saved, want safe, it’s you. I can’t let him have you."  
  
"Then don’t," Hawke snapped back, because he recognized the mage spiraling down in despair again. He’d seen it before, in Kirkwall. "You are in control, not him."  
  
"Me, in control?" Anders laughed, a mad little cackle that was broken only as he rose to his feet. "I killed her. She took me into the fade to talk to Vengeance. I warned her. I warned her what would happen. She thought she was stronger than she was. She thought she could banish him, could chase him off and kill him like we did to the demons inside Feynriel. She was wrong. He’s too strong. He doesn’t just whisper to me in my dreams, in the fade. He is me, he is living in my flesh, and he’s getting stronger."  
  
Hawke flinched a little, but got to his feet all the same. If this was going to end badly, he wanted to be ready for it. “If she thought she could banish him that means it can be done.” He set upon the last vestige of hope in Anders’ words.   
  
"Yes, it can be done," the mage admitted. "She told me how, and I will travel elsewhere and find someone that can do it, but you have to go back. Stay with Isabela. Go back to your sister in Ferelden. Do whatever you want, as long as you leave. Maybe once this is all over, we can…"  
  
"You nug-humping idiot," Hawke snapped, clearing the fire in a single step, sparks flying. He grabbed the mage by the front of his robes, forcing Anders to face him. "I know you. I know your moods. If I go now you will go off and find yourself a tree and hang yourself, or wander off to find a more accommodating darkspawn horde."  
  
"And wouldn’t that be better?" Anders snapped back, grabbing Hawke’s wrists. "You’ve helped enough already. If it wasn’t for you it never would have gone this far. I wouldn’t have been able to do it; I would have died fighting Templars in Darktown, just another apostate abomination dead by their swords. I would have been a footnote, nobody worth remembering, and I would have been happy. I would have healed as many as I could, protected what was within my reach, and then I would be done. If the Champion of Kirkwall hadn’t stood up for me, hundreds of people would be alive today that aren’t…"  
  
"You think I don’t know that?" Hawke could feel the heat of the fire against his shins, he couldn’t press forward, and he couldn’t retreat. "You think I don’t know it’s on my shoulders as well? It’s a crime we’ll have to live with together, and don’t you dare to shoulder this burden alone. That’s not how this works. We’ll hang together or not at all."  
  
"The world doesn’t care how you think things should work," Anders growled, his eyes glowing faintly. "There is no Justice in this world, only Vengeance."  
  
"So do it then," Hawke challenged, letting go of the mage. "Kill me. Prove that that you can." He wasn’t talking to Anders now; he was talking to the spirit inside. "Kill me and take whatever misguided Vengeance you want." He felt like he was pissing on a dragon’s tail, but there came a time when you had to do the dumb thing.  
  
"You should run," the words sounded hollow, as if Anders mouth was too solid to contain them. His eyes were blue now, crystalline cracks appearing all over his skin, his hands glowing strongly. "Justice demands that you pay for what you have done."  
  
"I’m not running," Hawke said, with stronger conviction than he had believed himself capable of. He lowered his hands, forcing himself to keep them at his side as he bared his throat. "Kill me. Get your blasted vengeance. I won’t resist."  
  
Anders hesitated, the agony of possession written clearly on his face. Lightning crawled over his arms, building in intensity until Hawke could feel the hair on his arms stand on end. “Hawke,” the mage managed to choke out. “Don’t make me…”  
  
"Kill me you blasted coward!" Hawke snapped, giving Anders a push that sent shocks of lightning up his arms. "I am the one thing standing between you and what you want. Just do it already."  
  
Lightning flared, the skies parted and Hawke twitched and jumped backwards, nearly stumbling into the fire. But the lightning had struck Anders, not him. He was still alive. And so was the mage. Anders had sunk to his knees in the blackened circle that surrounded him, breathing deeply as the glow slowly faded from his skin. His face was ashen, but he looked more like the man that Hawke loved once more.  
  
"You’re insane," the mage gasped, shaking his head. "Completely and utterly nutters."  
  
"Not sure I disagree," Hawke replied, letting himself drop to the ground in front of the mage. Suddenly all strength had left his legs.  
  
"I could have killed you!" Anders exclaimed in horror. "Maker, I really could have."  
  
"But you didn’t. I pushed as hard as I could, and you controlled him. You pushed him down and didn’t kill me.  You can do this. We can do this." Hawke knew he probably had a silly smile on his lips. It was either that or having a complete nervous breakdown.  
  
"And I pushed as hard as I could and you still wouldn’t leave." Anders was smiling as well, one of those involuntary little smirks of relief that just this once, just today, nobody had needed to die.  
  
"You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already. Or doesn’t blame myself for. But you said it yourself to me after mother died. We owe it to the dead to make our lives worthwhile." Hawke hoped that it had been Anders. It might have been Varric, he had been in such a state after it happened that things blurred together.  
  
"So what happens now then?" The question came cautiously, as if the mage feared having it answered.  
  
"Now we go do whatever you learned needed doing to get you back to yourself, and then I suppose we have a war to fight." Hawke sighed a little, running a hand over his shorn head.  
  
"Andraste’s sweater puppies," Anders said, giving the rogue a helpless smile. "I can’t help thinking you’re actually serious about that."  
  
"Serious? Me?" Hawke answered the smile with one of his own. "Perish the thought."


	7. Chapter 7

Cold. Why so cold? Hawke could hardly think anymore, everything sluggish and gray. Thoughts moved like snails in the sand, slowly, leaving traces of memories behind. Anders’ face. Gray. Lifeless. He tried to move, fingers creaking as if they had been made of wood. Was there a heartbeat? A pulse? He couldn’t feel anything, but his hands were numb. He brought his fists down on the mage’s naked chest. Hard. Thump. Beat you bastard heart. Don’t give out yet. Breathe. Live. Don’t do this to me.  
  
…  
  
Six days ago, on the road back from the Saltmarsh.  
  
"So, Tevinter, huh?" Hawke shook his head, but wasn’t really surprised.  
  
"That’s where I need to go," Anders sighed, leaning heavily on his staff as they walked. "Maybe I should have kept that Tevinter amulet you gave me, make me fit right in."  
  
"I think you need to practice your blood magic and buy a couple of slaves for that," Hawke joked back. "And practice your evil laugh. All Tevinter mages need an evil laugh."  
  
"I’ve got a perfectly decent cackle," Anders protested, then demonstrated; "Bwahahahahaha," he exclaimed, making a grandiose gesture.  
  
"No," Hawke said, shaking his head. "Not particularly cowed, nor impressed."  
  
"Well, you’re no fun," Anders complained.  
  
"And your amulet did help us get the coin to get there," Hawke offered, still feeling a little bad that the mage had to sell the gift he had given him. But they had to sell so many things by now, everything except the bare necessities. And sadly, mementoes were not something they could afford.  
  
"But will it be enough to get us to Tevinter?" the mage asked.  
  
"Isabela will provide," Hawke said with a smile. "She still owes me a favor or two."  
  
"Really?" Anders said with a smirk. "I for one would think the scales almost balanced by now."  
  
"Shush you doubter," Hawke said, placing an arm around the mage’s shoulders. "Besides, she likes me."  
  
  
…  
  
  
Cold lips. Slow heartbeat. But there was a heartbeat now. He was out of breath himself, but kept pushing air into the unresponsive mage. They had taught him how in the army. One breath for him, one breath for the mage. He had never imagined it would be this tiring. The numbness sapped at him, tugged at him to give up, to collapse, to give in to exhaustion. One more, he kept telling himself. Just one more shared breath. One more.   
  
  
…  
  
  
Five days ago, Llomerryn harbor.  
  
"What do you mean you won’t do it?" Hawke quickened his pace to keep up with Isabela, who was stomping up the gangway to her ship with furious speed.  
  
"I meant what I said before, Hawke, I will stand by you, but not to the point of idiocy. My ship and I will bow out of this madness." She swirled around, barring Hawke’s path as if she half intended to push him in the sea if he insisted getting aboard  
  
"We’re just asking for passage, not a blockade run," the rogue protested, looking up at the infuriated pirate.   
  
"You are asking me to sail my sweet little ship to Tevinter. Tevinter! And he wonders why I think he’s insane," she gestured angrily, her hair tangling wildly in the wind.   
  
Not for the first time Hawke thought she looked magnificent. Even if she was a pain in his ass. “Ships sail to Tevinter all the time,” he offered. “There’s a lot of trade there, and I very much doubt your ship is going to be invaded by legions of blood mages out for your nubile flesh.”  
  
"I don’t care about mages or abominations, I’ve trafficked with them in the past, they’re greedy bastards but they play fair with traders. They like their pretty toys too much to antagonize us. It’s getting there that will be the problem."  
  
"Getting there?" Hawke asked, nonplussed. "Is something wrong with your ship?"  
  
"There is nothing wrong with my ship," she exclaimed, pointing a finger at Hawke’s chest. "Do not insult the ship. But to get there we have to sail through the Northern Passage."  
  
"Ah," Hawke said, the realization dawning on him. " Past Par Vollen. Qunari."  
  
"Qunari that still might have a sore spot about a certain relic I stole. It’s not like they forget Hawke, the only reason they haven’t tried to hunt me down yet is that you actually gave the blasted book back to them." She sounded as if she still couldn’t quite believe that he had done such an inane thing, giving something away.  
  
"Maybe they have decided to let bygones be bygones?" Hawke suggested sheepishly, earning himself another poke in the chest.  
  
"The Qunari are single minded idiots who can’t even come up with the concept of forgiveness. Or lying, or casual sex, or anything that makes life worth living really. But they are patient. And they know who I am now because you," he got another poke, "yes, you let the whole lot of them travel back home after you eviscerated their Arishok."  
  
"I didn’t exactly ‘let’ them," Hawke protested, in vain, because Isabela was not listening.  
  
"They know my face now. They know my name. You saw what happened in Kirkwall, they were ready to just sit there and wait until the time was right. I won’t go up and spit in fate’s eye, not this time. Not again. Not with my new pretty. You go if you want to Hawke, you and that crazy boyfriend of yours, but count me out."  
  
"Alright," Hawke had said, capitulating. "But could you at least point us towards a captain that won’t sell us as slaves or toss us overboard at the first opportunity?"  
  
Maybe, he would think to himself later, when the storm smashed into the ship, tearing the sails to tatters. Maybe he should have asked her to point them towards someone that could actually sail as well….  
  
  
…  
  
  
A cough. Life. Water in his mouth. Turn him on his side and let him breathe for himself. Alive. Alive was good. He could collapse now, let the cold claim him. Let himself sink back to lethargy and numbness atop the unconscious mage. Unconscious but alive.   
  
  
…  
  
  
One day ago, the Northern Passage  
  
The storm had come suddenly as they were rounding the tip of Rivain, steering into the strait between the mainland and the island of Par Vollen. The captain had vainly tried to outrun the approaching clouds, hanging black towards the horizon like a bruise, riddled with lightning. The masts creaked under the strain, and eventually a strong gust tore the fabric to shreds, taking the main mast with them.   
  
The horrible sound of splintered wood had roused Hawke from the cabin where he had tried to ride out the worst bouts of sea sickness. Making his way to the deck was like riding a Bronto, you knew where you wanted to go, but getting there was another story. He was bruised and blackened by the time he reached the deck, running into Anders who had been on his way down to get him.  
  
"Nice weather we’re having," said the mage, he almost had to shout to be heard over the screaming wind and roaring sea. Hawke had no idea that the ocean could be this loud, like the insides of a dragon with digestion problems. Isabela had once said that there was no better feeling than being on the open sea in the middle of the storm. Isabela was one lying bitch he decided.  
  
"We’re sinking, aren’t we?" he screamed back, adrenaline wiping away nausea. Fear was like sex, it removed all thoughts of minor bodily complaints.  
  
"Oh I don’t know…" Anders said lightly, looking around the deck. The masts had been snapped like kindling, and were now dragging behind the ship, still connected by the rigging. Sailors swarmed like ants, trying to cut the ropes, but the movement of the ship made it nearly impossible. "They seem to…" there was another shriek of splintered wood as a wave flung the masts back towards the ship, crashing into the hull, causing the entire vessel to lurch drunkenly. "… no, wait, yes, we are sinking. Definitely."  
  
"Good to know," Hawke said, keeping hold of the mage as the deck started tilting. The ship was taking on water. They really were sinking. "Too bad you never got around to teach me how to swim."  
  
"Well, I got good news about that," the mage joked, handing Hawke his staff as he hurriedly shrugged out of his robes.  
  
"What?" Hawke said, incredulously. "That I’ll see you strip one more time before I die?"  
  
"Can’t swim in robes," the mage offered, almost losing his balance on the rapidly tilting deck until Hawke grabbed hold of him. "Drags you right down. Pants are alright though, so you can keep yours on. Which is too bad come to think of it."  
  
"What’s the good news then? Because Maker, if I ever needed any I think now is the time." Hawke could feel himself starting to slip, so he looped one arm around the half-naked mage and made an effort to reach the railing where he could brace himself. It was a lot further from the water than it had been, but Hawke feared that was only temporary since the whole ship was going down.  
  
"The good news is that it likely won’t matter if you can swim or not. Not in a storm like this." Anders smile was infectious despite the situation, and Hawke could feel himself returning it.  
  
"Now what then? We die? Seems a silly way to go, considering." But he supposed that it had a certain poetic justice. Nobody would ever be quite certain what became of the Champion of Kirkwall and the renegade apostate. The stories would live on.  
  
"No, now we jump," Anders said with a mad grin.  
  
"Jump?" Hawke said, clinging to railing and mage both.  
  
"Yes, we need to get away from the ship before it breaks apart completely. Water is one thing; water with a shipful of broken timbers in it is like voluntarily insulting Donnic to Aveline’s face."  
  
"You’re crazy, you know that right? Completely insane?" Hawke could see the logic, but his legs could not. They just screamed at him not to move, to cling to the solid wood of the ship for as long as he could. When you were facing death, every second seemed like an eternity worth living.  
  
"So I’ve been told. Repeatedly. But I’m also right." Anders tugged at Hawke’s arm, which was looped around the railing. "Please, love. Trust me."  
  
Trust. Hawke felt like laughing, but he knew it would come out like hysteria, so instead he did what the mage asked and let go long enough to heave them both over the side of the ship. The ocean was a long way down.  
  
But the churning waves rose to meet them.  
  
The water hit Hawke like a fist, driving the breath from his body. The sea was like Meredith, cold, merciless, and filled with fury. Maybe it would have better luck than she did getting rid of them. He flailed for the surface, not sure in which direction it was. He had lost his grip on Anders, the mage was somewhere he hoped, but right now he didn’t know where. Right now he didn’t even know where he was, or the surface, or Maker but he needed air. His lungs burned, and he knew he was flailing, and this was worse than the gas in Lowtown. There he had gone in, trying not to breathe, every lungful tearing his chest apart. But he could breathe at least. Here he couldn’t. If he did, he was dead. Really dead. He knew that. Dead.  
  
Would drowning be such a bad way to go? Yes, yes it would, he decided. Drowning was bad, but where was the surface, was he sinking or? Hawke forced himself to open his eyes, the sting was unbearable but so was everything else. But still he had no idea where up or down was, only that he could hear the rush of blood in his ears and the urge to breathe and end it all, and… then he saw a light with stinging blurry eyes, a sharp light. Blue. So blue. He reached for it and his hand brushed against something hard. Wood. A staff. He grabbed hold and felt himself tugged upwards, and then there was air, air and foam and he sucked it in and coughed and clung to the cold and slippery surface but by the Maker he could at least breathe again. Between the coughs.  
  
"Don’t die yet," he heard a voice pleading, and by the Maker why was it so cold? He couldn’t move properly, one of his arms seemed caught, trapped.   
  
"Not dead," he coughed in reply. "Takes more…" he coughed, "… to kill me." Bravado. He wouldn’t have thought himself capable of it a few moments ago. Hawke blinked away the tears from the salty water, looking up at Anders worried face.   
  
"Do you need healing?" the mage asked with a frown. "I’d rather not, because this is a bit harder than I planned."  
  
It wasn’t a piece of driftwood they were clinging to Hawke realized, there was no trace of the ship from within the churning waves. It was a block of ice they rode, the mage had most likely frozen a chunk of the ocean as they landed, keeping himself aloft. They were both partly encased in it, with the way the waves kept tossing them around there was no way they would have been able to cling to anything long enough to survive this. But ice did float, and they with it, riding the cresting waves. Only the Maker knew where. Every wave that crashed over them and drenched them added to the ice, binding them both more securely to their raft. Hawke had never been so cold in his entire life.  
  
"Planned?" he finally managed to choke out as he realized death might come slower than expected. "You actually planned this?"  
  
"Done it before," the mage admitted through clattering teeth. "Just not in the middle of a storm." How else did you think I swam across Lake Calenhad? It’s a big lake."  
  
"I thought you were a good swimmer."  
  
"I am a good swimmer; just… it’s tiring work. I like to cheat."  
  
"Less tiring than constantly icing our surroundings, and keeping us from frostbite at the same time?" Hawke remarked, quietly in awe of the mage’s resourcefulness. No wonder he had managed to keep escaping from the circle. "Please tell me you are keeping us from frostbite."  
  
"I am," Anders said, the strain of concentration visible on his face. "Let’s just hope the storm blows itself out before I run out of mana."  
  
"Or blows us ashore," Hawke said, trying not to think about what could happen if it didn’t. He’d drown as easily in calm seas as stormy ones. "What are the odds you think?"  
  
"Wouldn’t make a bet on them," Anders said with a strained laugh. "But at least there are odds. And they would be worse if I hadn’t kept that Qunari mage’s little gift." The talisman of Saarebas glowed faintly against his pale skin. Hawke imagined he could almost see it throbbing.  
  
"I wondered why you choose to keep that of all things I gave to you, you didn’t even approve of his decision to end himself." Hawke wasn’t sure he understood or approved either, but there was something strangely admirable about the Qunari determination to live their lives according to their own rules. More than once he had wondered what would have happened if they had met under better circumstances.  
  
"Practicality. Not sentiment." Anders lips were turning blue, and he had to stop and focus for a moment.   
  
Hawke could feel the faint tingle of the healing spell course through his body, bringing life to his numb limbs. Of course life meant tingling pain as blood started flowing through his partially frozen body once more. “Maker, that stings,” he complained, but his next words were drowned as another wave crashed down on them, nearly breaking their little ice floe apart.  
  
"At least you’re alive to complain," the mage sputtered, wet hair plastered to his skull.  
  
"Let’s make sure we both stay that way," Hawke agreed, trying not to think about their situation. Alone. At sea. In a storm. Trapped on the tiniest of ice floes, held aloft by the will of a tiring mage. If they got out of this in one piece, Varric would have a story to tell that hardly needed exaggerating. Though, knowing the dwarf, he’d probably have to fight sea monsters or Qunari dreadnoughts before this was over. Maker, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  
  
  
…  
  
  
Footsteps. Footsteps in the sand. Hawke wanted to move, but his head was heavy. He was driftwood on the shore, not capable of movement. Consciousness came and went, cutting off the sentences into words he could only barely comprehend.  
  
 _"… vashedan?"  
  
"… bas… … meraad…"_  
  
Hawke could feel hands. Warm hands. Large calloused hands. Hands dragging him to the side, away from Anders.  
  
 _"Teth a! Bas Saarebas!"_  
  
Hands that let him go, dropping him to the sand once more. Hawke struggled to get up, making it to all fours before the ground started spinning. Those words. He remembered them. Mage. That was what the Arvaraad had called Anders. Before he tried to kill him.  
  
"Wait," he coughed, looking up at the pair of Qunari readying their knives. Not warriors. Fishermen? They were skittish enough at the prospect of facing even an unconscious mage that his words made them pause.  _"Basvaraad,"_  he said weakly, motioning towards himself.  _"Basvaraad, Basalit-an."_  It was the only thing he could think of saying, and he hoped that it was enough because the world had started spinning again, and this time not even the threat of death could keep him upright.  
Darkness claimed him once more.


	8. Chapter 8

Consciousness came slowly like an uninvited guest, turning blissful oblivion into aching awareness. Hawke groaned as he turned, the bed was soft enough, but right now the very act of existing set his nerves on fire.   
  
"You are suffering from frostbite," a deep female voice informed him as he forced his eyes open, blinking like an owl caught out by dawn.  
  
"I take it that the fact that it feels like my fingers are going to drop off is a sign that they won’t?" Hawke hoped that was true. He fervently hoped. If he had to choose between fingers and his life, he would argue that they were one and the same. He relied on his hands far too much.  
  
"There will be no permanent damage," the Qunari woman assured, shifting slightly on the chair where she had been resting. Perhaps waiting for him to awake.   
  
"Thank the Maker for that," Hawke said, sinking back on the bed as he looked a bit closer at the woman.   
  
She was as tall as any man that Hawke had ever met, and only slightly less bulky than the male Qunari. Her horns curved backwards in elegant sweeps, the brow-ridge shadowing her eyes. Like all Qunari she was almost impossible to read, but from what he could see of the small room he was in, it didn’t look like he was imprisoned. There were no bars on the open window, he wasn’t strapped to the bed, and his daggers lay on a small table next to him. Not that he would be running any time soon, but it was good to be armed all the same. There were too many memories attached to those daggers for him to feel good without them around.   
  
He was alive. It took a moment for that to truly sink in. He had honestly not expected that when Anders had admitted that he had nothing left inside him and had used the last reserves of mana to thicken the ice that supported them before losing consciousness. They must have drifted ashore, he vaguely remembered trying to get Anders to breathe… Anders!  
  
"What happened to the man found together with me?" he asked, keeping his voice under careful control even though he wanted to grab her by the horns and shout it in her face. Qunari hated magic more than the Templars did, and killed uncontrolled mages on sight.   
  
"He is kept safe," the woman said, her eyes never leaving Hawke’s face.  
  
"Good," Hawke answered, facing down her stare because he had not missed the fact that she had said ‘kept safe’. Not just safe.  
  
"It is a question of debate how you found yourself on our shores." The question was as blunt as ever the Arishok’s, but worded more diplomatically.   
  
"We were shipwrecked," he started, trying to decide what he would tell her.   
  
"That was not a matter of debate," she replied with a deadpan look.  
  
This was a situation as ready to blow up in his face as any talk he had ever had with the Arishok. It would be easy to make up a lie, but… Maker he found it hard to lie to the Qunari. There was something about the fact that they were so scrupulously blunt and honest about things that made him want to respond in kind. It was… refreshing he supposed. He could understand what Seamus had seen in them, it was not often you were dealt with for who you were, not what you were. The truth then, it had saved his ass with them often enough in the past.  
  
"We were passengers on The Seahorse," he continued, "A trader bound for Tevinter. The captain misjudged the weather and we got caught in the mother of all storms. The mast snapped, the ship broke apart and we ended up in the water." Nothing that could hang him there he hoped, him or Anders. Maker he wanted to know what they had done to him.  
  
"Wreckage has been found," she nodded. "No others. How did you survive?"  
  
Hawke debated lying; he could be damning them both if he told the truth. Or damn them both worse by lying and being found out. “Magic,” he confessed at last, deciding to stick to his honor. The Qunari were the only ones who had ever assumed he had any, even when he had been the Champion, he knew the other Hightowners gossiped behind his back about the Ferelden smuggler dog that thought he belonged with them. “Magic is what saved us; the man found with me is Bas Saarebas.”  
  
The woman did not seem surprised. “That much is obvious. The waters this time of the year are cold, but not cold enough for frostbite. And he wore the mark of a Saarebas.”  
  
The amulet. Hawke would be kicking himself if he wasn’t lying down. That’s how the fishermen knew what Anders was. The damn amulet given to him by the Qunari mage that he had passed on to his lover. The amulet that had saved their lives only to damn them now.  
  
"I am Baasvarad," he said at last, with as much conviction as he could muster. "He is in my charge." Roll the dice and hope for sixes, he had no idea how this gamble might be playing out. Wouldn’t be the first time he bet too high with their lives as the stakes, but by the Maker he hoped it was the last. Probably not.  
  
"Is he now?" she asked, by all appearances as amused as a Qunari could ever get. "I was told you had claimed as much. It is strange of a Bas to speak of such things."  
  
"Nether the less it is true. I am responsible for him. To make sure he doesn’t hurt anybody." Hawke realized with a sinking feeling that this was actually true. After the Chantry he had promised himself, never again. Even if it meant setting himself up as his friend’s keeper. Or rather, Justice’s. Oh but the mage would kick his ass if he ever learned about this.  
  
"You are not of the Qun," she stated simply.  
  
"No. Are there not those outside the Qun worthy of respect?" Hawke had no idea where he got the guts to debate these things with her, but he was tired, he hurt and he was worried out of his head. He had no patience for trickery.  
  
"Few things," she said, "but you are known to us, Basalit-an. You are known to us since Kirkwall."  
  
"The Tome of Koslun got back here safely then," Hawke was too nervous to ask exactly how he was known. He’d given them the damn book, but killed the Arishok in a duel for refusing to turn Isabela over. He wasn’t sure how those scales balanced.  
  
"It was," the woman nodded. "But not the thief."   
"There the Arishok’s and my duties differed," Hawke said. Looked like he was about to find out about those scales at last.  
  
"So it is told. Tell me then, Basalit-an, do you understand why he fought you?"  
  
Hawke paused a moment, flexing his aching fingers. “He fought me because his duty demanded that he return back with the thief as well as the Tome. But had he set his men upon us, chances are he would have got his ass kicked. We’re not that easy to beat, and then he would have lost everything, Tome and thief both. By fighting me he ensured the return of the book, and had a chance to get the thief as well.” He had no idea if he was right in his reasoning; it just seemed like something he would have done. “Or,” he added with a faint smile, “Or perhaps he just wanted to see if he could beat me after what I did to his honor guard.”  
  
"One does not preclude the other," she admitted. "But tell me then, why did you return the Tome of Koslun when it had been stolen by your Kadan?"  
  
"It belonged to the Qunari," Hawke shrugged, because he had been mulling over the same question himself after Isabela chewed him out about it. Their biggest argument yet.   
  
"And why not the thief?"  
  
"I had a duty to her, she was one of my… what was it you called it? Kadan."  
  
"And yet she had deceived you, gone behind your back and lied to you."  
  
"You are remarkably well informed," Hawke said, eyes narrowing. "And yes, yes she had. But this wasn’t about her duty. It was about mine."  
  
"And you have a duty to this Bas Saarebas as well?"  
  
"I do," Hawke admitted.  
  
"The Arishok named you rightly Basalit-an, you are closer to the Qun than you think."  
  
"He told me the same," Hawke said, wishing he had any idea where this was going. Talking to Qunari was like fighting in the mist. You didn’t know you were hit until you went down.  
  
"And what do you think?" she asked, face neutral.  
  
"I only do what I feel is right," Hawke shrugged. "You know the Qun, you be the judge."  
  
"We will be," came the short reply.  
  
"Good… Wait, what?" Hawke snapped to attention, wondering what in everything that was holy he had stumbled into now.  
  
"You will submit yourself to the judgment of the Ben-Hassrath.."  
  
"That was not a question, was it?" Hawke groaned.  
  
"Would your answer have been other than yes?" she asked.  
  
Hawke considered that for a moment, then reluctantly admitted. “No, it wouldn’t have.” He had one chance of getting out of here alive with Anders, and… oh maker he didn’t even know anymore. He didn’t understand the Qunari, he was playing a game he didn’t even have the rules for and there was no way to bow out. Isabela would have laughed and chided him for a fool.  
  
"That was my belief as well."  
  
"When will this happen?" he asked, feeling faint at the thought of submitting to anything. He was more of the being dragged kicking and screaming into things than putting his head in the noose voluntarily.  
  
"When you have recovered sufficiently," she said, eyeing his collapsed form. "In about a week if my estimations are correct."  
  
"And in the meantime?"  
  
"Do as you see fit. This is Par Vollen. You are Basalit-an and carries a Bassrath-Kata. We would not dishonor you as prisoner."  
  
"That is why you left me my weapons," Hawke sighed.   
  
"To lose them is to lose your honor," she said simply.  
  
"Yeah, I get it. And the Bas Saarebas?" Hawke was afraid to ask, but he had to.  
  
"He will be kept safe. For now his fate will be determined by yours."  
  
"Good to know." It wasn’t good to know at all, but what choice did he have? None at all.  
  
"Panahedan, Basalit-an," she said as she rose from her chair, crowding the room. "Sleep and recover."  
  
….  
  
It had been a few days before Hawke had been able to test the Qunari’s promises and venture out of the infirmary. He had wanted to wait until he could actually walk and not just hobble, because right now his dignity was really all he had. The woman had been good on her word, none of his digits had turned black, and the sores that had formed on the arm that had been frozen worst were healing fast. If Anders had been here they would have been cleared up already, but the Qunari just used herbs and potions. No magic. Too dangerous.  
  
He wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting from Par Vollen, but that it would seem so peaceful sure wasn’t it. Granted, this was a small costal settlement and not a grand metropolis, but all the same it had the feel of quiet, orderly happiness around it. For the first time Hawke realized that for all his interactions with the Qunari, all he had ever met had been warriors dedicated to their task or Tal-Vashoth. Now suddenly he was surrounded by craftsmen and townsfolk, and by women as well as men. Things were familiar and at the same time strange, there was something that was missing that he couldn’t put his finger on until it finally hit him. No commerce. No busy vendors plying their trade on the streets, no beggars or pickpockets out for a quick coin. Hawke had no idea how this worked, but it seemed that people simply made what they wanted, or what other people needed, and that the people in need just got them. The merchant’s shops he’d stumbled into had seemed more like charities to him, redistributing the goods to those who had a need of it.   
  
His money was of no use here, which was good because he had lost it in the wreck. All that he needed was the fact that he carried a Bassrath-Kata. Though few people spoke his language, the sight of that pommel strapped to his back marked him for something, he was not sure what. Worthy of respect perhaps? One of them? He could sit down at one of the shady outdoor eateries with the other Qunari, many of which were of human and elven heritage here on the coast. He could replace the boots that had been lost at sea, and outfit himself until he felt a little bit more like the Champion he used to be. No questions asked, and to be fair, he didn’t ask for more than he needed. It felt… rude somehow. Maker’s breath, he felt rude, he wouldn’t have thought that possible. Anders would have laughed.  
  
Anders. His meandering around the small town had another purpose as well. He needed to find out where the mage was kept, because if things turned out badly he didn’t care how many Qunari there would be between him and the man, he’d get there all the same. Oh who was he kidding; of course they would turn out badly. They always did. The scar on his stomach where the Arishok had skewered him and nearly ended his life was throbbing again. Anders had healed it and saved his life once the duel was over and he had allowed himself to collapse, but the feeling of the steel inside him was not something that went away. The warriors he met, he kept an eye on, trying to judge how they would compare with what he had seen in Kirkwall. Not too favorably. He could beat them, of that he was reasonably sure. The question was just how many.  
  
He actually found himself missing Kirkwall. Say what you will about the town, but the Gallows had been easy to spot. Here, finding out where mages were kept was a lot harder. As the end of the week approached he had it down to two likely locations, both of them well guarded, with high walls. His hands worked properly again, his throwing knives found their mark, and he felt about as agile and fit as a man well past thirty could expect. He didn’t expect he would have any problem getting into either of the two buildings, there wasn’t a lock made he couldn’t tickle if he had to, and the shadows were just as friendly here as they had been back in Kirkwall. No, getting in was never the problem. It was getting out. Getting out with a possibly injured, drugged or, Maker forbid, mutilated Anders. He had a hard time keeping those images out of his dreams, of Anders chained up like the Saarebas, turned into a mute, mutilated beast. He hoped nobody had heard his screams when he had woken up.  
  
Now all that remained was trying to decide whether to break in and make a break for it, or whether to actually wait and take his chances with the Ben-Hassrath. As nightfall approached, Hawke was still not sure what would be the best cause of action. Maker’s breath, he wished his life was easy sometimes.  
  
Maybe he should have stuck to smuggling.


	9. Chapter 9

The heavy hand on Hawke’s shoulder made him jump and nearly reach for his daggers.  
  
"Please, don’t do that," he complained, then drew himself up to his full height, which was woefully inadequate compared to the Qunari… warrior? Ben-Hassrath? He wasn’t sure what the male was supposed to be, but Maker he was big, and the ornate staff strapped to his back looked more than enough to cave in his skull if he resisted. Still, the hand was removed.  
  
"It is time," the Qunari said roughly, voice thickly accented.  
  
"Oh," Hawke replied, scratching his neck. No choice now he supposed. Had he been watched? Or was the timing simply terrible? "Lead the way then," he said at last, giving the foreboding walls one last look. For better or worse, he had no choice but to try for a peaceful solution.  
  
…  
  
The Qunari led him through the darkening streets, people respectfully clearing their path. Or was it fearfully? Hawke had no idea if the Qunari even felt fear, they sure didn’t show it. He hoped the same was true for him right now. Shaking in his boots was just not a very good look for the Champion of Kirkwall. Their destination was a large but nondescript building, built in the same domed style that was common here in the warmer, rainier climates of the north. Nothing that Hawke could spot separated it from its neighbors; it was just one building amongst many. So this was it then. He had expected more pomp and circumstance.  
  
The corridors inside were dark and empty, not disused but cleared of people. His Qunari guide carried a torch that, together with the echoes of their boots, gave it all a rather clandestine feel. Hawke was surprised, he hadn’t been sure the Qunari could even do clandestine, let alone subterfuge or secrecy. It didn’t really go together with the image of the horn-heads, but live and learn. Or, at least, live. Maybe it was simply the fact that all his dealings up until now had been with either warriors or Tal Vashoth. Soldiers of any breed or race were not exactly noted for their subtlety or cleverness; he’d learned that from his brief stint in the Ferelden army. Carver had fit right in… him, not so much.  
  
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting at the end of the journey, everything from a grand courtroom to a torture cell had come to mind, but the one thing he had not been prepared for was a room that for all intents and purposes looked like a normal mess hall. Massive tables stretched across the floor, lined by benches. Qunari furniture always made him feel like a child, everything slightly out of shape and size for a human like him. Maybe this small town didn’t have a proper venue for these things, he pondered. Maybe they just cleared a building and improvised. Or maybe they were doing their best to keep this tightly under wraps.  
  
Two figures awaited him at the end of one of the tables, already comfortably seated. He recognized the Qunari woman who had sat with him when he had woken up. So she hadn’t been a healer after all, which meant that their first conversation had been an interrogation just like he had suspected. Sticking to the truth felt smarter by the second. This time she was dressed in utilitarian but striking robes in grey and black, holding an elaborately carved staff in her hand. The other was a grim looking hornless male, whose bare chest was covered with black and grey geometric designs reminiscent of the patterns on the female robe. A similar staff to hers rested against his chair, and Hawke assumed this was somehow a mark of office. Or something. Maybe like the swords of the warriors. A weapon, but a less than lethal one.  
  
"Shanedan, Basalit-an," the woman said, while the male that had brought him there put his torch in a holder on the wall before taking his seat on the other side of the hornless one.  
  
"And a mighty fine evening to you too," Hawke said nonchalantly, remaining on his feet. He had not been offered a seat, and quite frankly he hadn’t wanted one anyway. Standing, he felt less short compared to the others, and if push came to shove he could make a run for it. Maker’s breath, he wanted to do that right now, just douse the light and flee the building. He could. But he didn’t.  
  
"We are the Ben-Hassrath," the hornless one explained in a surprisingly soft voice as if Hawke had any doubts. "We are here to ascertain and to judge."  
  
"I’d thought there’d be more of you," Hawke said, almost biting his tongue. The more nervous he became, the drier his wit turned. He would have to watch that.  
  
"Three are enough for a judgment," the woman replied as if Hawke had asked a legitimate question and not just made light of the situation. "Two of this domain, and one of Qunandar," she continued, nodding at the hornless one.  
  
"I am honored," Hawke said, bowing deep enough that he hoped the slightly sarcastic bite in his voice was missed. So he had merited attention from the capital. That was either good… or not so good, but it explained why they had chosen to wait a week before doing this. He doubted his health had much bearing on this matter at all. They had been waiting for that hornless bastard to arrive.  
  
"You have presented us with a quandary that is unprecedented," the woman said evenly. "It is customary to seek the wisdom of those better versed in matters like these before taking rash action."   
  
Was that a jab at the horned, surly looking male? Hawke thought it might be. Qunari were hard to read but not impossible, and he was starting to see how this fitted together now. They were shit scared; she and her horned friend had no idea what to do about him. So they had sent away for someone more important to tell them what to do. It was an absurd relief to know that he wasn’t the only one feeling deeply uncomfortable here.  
  
"I aim to please," he said with the faintest of smiles.  
  
"Do you now?" she asked, "from the evidence that hardly seem the case."  
  
"It is a figure of speech," Hawke offered generously.  
  
"One which I was using to make a point," she replied evenly.  
  
"I stand corrected," Hawke said with a wince. He decided not to underestimate her again, she was sharp enough. Which was either good, or very bad indeed.  
  
"Your past actions are known to us," interjected the hornless one. "It is your future that is under debate. You have made claims that rightfully belong to one of the Qun, for a duty that is not offered to someone outside it."  
  
"I have," Hawke agreed, deciding that if he needed to make a run for it, the hornless one was going down first. There was an air of undetermined danger about him that made his guts clamp up.  
  
"You have been named Basalit-an, and therefore you will be acknowledged the respect to be heard." The hornless one spoke softly, large hands clasped together. "Tell me, if you were allowed to leave with your charge, what would you do?"  
  
"Find a ship to get us across to Rivain, I suppose." Hawke tried his best not to fidget, but it was impossible to match the stony calm of the Qunari before him. "Then find another to Tevinter. Our task is too important to deviate from." Maker’s breath he was insane, admitting to these people that he planned to go to their sworn enemies if he got out of here, but it was the truth.  
  
"Tevinter," the hornless one said softly. "A strange destination for one claiming to be Basvaarad."  
  
"We are no friends of Tevinter," Hawke assured. "He doesn’t practice blood magic. But there are answers that can only be found there."  
  
"And you are willing to risk travelling there for them?" The woman almost sounded incredulous.  
  
"The Arishok did not approve of Kirkwall, yet that was where he had to stay. Sometimes we are only left with bad choices if we want to do the right thing." Hawke resisted the urge to wipe his palms; he was sweating, and not just because of the Par Vollen humidity.  
  
"Tell me then," the hornless one asked, "about the events that caused you to leave your chosen home."  
  
"That… ah, well, a war was started," Hawke begun, wondering what the hell he was going to say next. "A war that will most likely spread across the south. We had to leave…" Maker forgive him if he had misjudged this conversation "… because he was the one that started it."  
  
"The Bas Saarebas." It was not a question.  
  
"Yes." Hawke calculated two steps to the table, one leap across, and then he could bury his dagger in the hornless bastard’s neck. A roll, and then eviscerate the horned one who would be getting to his feet, then the woman. They were sitting down, the advantage was his. Then he could run and hope he was fast enough.   
  
"For what reason?" said the woman. This time it did sound like a question. Didn’t they already know the answer? Was this a test? Was he passing or failing?  
  
"He objected to the rules of the Templars and the Chantry," Hawke said at last, wondering how to sum the situation up without damning them both too badly in the process. "To how mages were treated," he admitted. "He blew up the chantry, killed the Grand Cleric, and… well, I killed the Knight Commander. We weren’t exactly welcome to stay after that." Maker’s breath, Hawke thought to himself. They really did sound like a pair of dangerous revolutionaries when he said the words out loud. He had been so used to thinking about them as the angry mage who wrote his manifestos down in Darktown, and the Hightown troublemaker that just liked talking back to the Templars. The good old days.  
  
"And you would have us turn this dangerous thing loose?" There was no judgment in the hornless one’s voice, just simple curiosity.  
  
"I claim responsibility for him," Hawke said, his shirt was now soaked enough to stick to his back underneath the light leather armor.  
  
"And what would you have done had you been in our position?" Now all three Qunari was fixing him with their gaze, leaving Hawke to feel like a mouse trapped outside its hole.  
  
"I…" Maker forgive him for this, "I wouldn’t have let him go." If he had been them. But he wasn’t. When would be the right time to pull a blade and end this charade?  
  
"You are Basalit-an. A warrior. Not Ben-Hassrath," the hornless one chided gently. "The ways of the Qun are more complicated than you can perceive."  
  
"But the Bas speaks truly," the horned one said gruffly. "Kill the Bas Saarebas; let the Basalit-an go. He belongs in the Qun. He should be converted."  
  
"He has set himself a duty no Bas have voluntarily taken on before," the woman objected. "He has spoken the truth even when lies would favor him. I say let them leave, the Bas Saarebas is a sword aimed at the throat of our enemies. This one will learn his folly soon enough, and when he does he will return to the Qun."  
  
"Umm…" Hawke interrupted, "Are you sure you really want to have this discussion with me in the room?"   
  
"Yes," the hornless one said firmly, standing up to place both palms on the table as he leaned forwards to stare down Hawke. "You should hear because you should know what burden you are offering to shoulder."  
  
"Lay it on then," Hawke said, taking a step forward. "I prefer to look things in the eyes." Or preferably to stab them in the back. No need to let them know that though.  
  
"Very well," the hornless one nodded, the other two having said their piece already. "You will be let go and your Bas Saarebas with you."  
  
"But…" Hawke started to protest before he realized what had been said. "… really?"  
  
"There will be war across the south, between your mages and your chantry. Now everybody will see the dangers we have warned about. The terrible contagion that is magic. People will rise in opposition, and your chantry will provide no answers, only further oppression."  
  
Hawke listened, and as he did, suspicions begun to grow.  The Qunari knew. And if they knew, things were beginning to add up.  
  
"The Gaatlock," Hawke said in disbelief. "It was the Gaatlock. You let him have the recipe for the blasted Gaatlock. That’s what he used to blow up the chantry!" Had Anders known? Hawke had no idea. He suspected that the mage wouldn’t have cared either way.  
  
"It was placed in his path," the hornless one admitted.  
  
"But… Gaatlock in the hands of a Bas Saarebas?" Hawke just couldn’t grasp that, the Qunari guarded their secrets to the death, there was no way they were getting out alive now, was there? Except they had already said they would be let go… Maker, what was going on here?  
  
"It was deemed a risk worth taking. We did not predict he would survive the coming cataclysm. The effect of your involvement was not taken into account."   
  
Hawke cursed between clenched teeth. He couldn’t remain still anymore and had started to pace, gesturing wildly as he spoke. “We suspected Tevinter influence behind the troubles in Kirkwall, but…” not the Qunari. Who were there. Mercenaries. Taarbas. Spies? Did the Qunari have spies? Did the Qun have room for a truth that was deception? “… but why?” he finally managed to finish, coming to a halt.  
  
"The war has stalled. Our lines are fixed. Something is needed to break the deadlock."  
  
"The south… you are setting the south afire to give you an advantage against Tevinter?" Hawke ran a hand over his shorn head; he couldn’t believe he was hearing this.  
  
"No," the hornless one corrected. "We are doing this to illuminate the dangers of magic. What conclusions people draw from it are their own."  
  
"Maker’s breath," Hawke hissed. The scope scared and dwarfed him. "Why tell me this?"  
  
"Because you are Basalit-an. You deserve to know the burden you shoulder."  
  
"If I leave I could tell people…" he started.  
  
"You could. Would they listen?"  
  
"I… don’t know," Hawke admitted. "Probably not."  
  
"That is our belief as well. This has gone too far for words to stop. Bas are undisciplined and superstitious, they will not listen to reason. They will fight. There will be war."  
  
"And you are releasing me… us, back into it?"  
  
"It is our belief that in the end you will choose to submit to the Qun and become our ally in this." The hornless one sounded certain of his assessment of Hawke’s character.   
  
"And Anders… the Bas Saarebas? What of him?" Hawke had stopped being afraid for now, this was no longer a matter of whether a mage should live or die, they were both pawns in a game he was only just beginning to understand.  
  
"He is a guarantee for war. To release him is to set a small fire to stop a larger blaze." The hornless one sounded sure, the horned male looking less than pleased by this decision.  
  
"I see." Hawke felt tired, drained. So this was what the fly felt like when trapped in the spider’s web. He had thought that the Witch of the Wild was more than a little off her rockers, with her talk of abysses and change and a world on the brink of war. He didn’t want to know these things. He didn’t want to have the burden of knowing how they had all been played. Knowing only made it worse. He had thought he had chosen to leap over the edge when he sided with Anders in support of his rebellion, but now he was not so sure what was happening. Was he falling? Was he flying? Was the bottom coming up fast to smash him into a bloody stain on the cliffs? Bloody mysterious witches and their prophecies. But what choice did he have? He wasn’t going to lie down and give up.  
  
"As a courtesy…" Hawke finally said with a sigh of capitulation. "… he will not reveal the formula of Gaatlock to anyone."  
  
"The Bas Saarebas cannot be trusted," the horned one scoffed.  
  
"I however, can," Hawke said sternly, hand on dagger. Maker’s breath, he couldn’t do this. That deserted island was looking all the more tempting by the minute.  
  
"It is decided then," the hornless one nodded. "You are judged to be Basvaarad, and the Bas Saarebas will be released into your custody. You will be put on a ship bound for Rivain. There you can find passage to Tevinter. You will be equipped for this task."  
  
"Equipped?" Hawke asked, confused.  
  
"You require funds for this passage," the woman explained.  
  
"You… are paying my way to Tevinter?" Hawke shook his head, he had now officially lost grasp of what was going on here.  
  
"You are Basvaarad," came the reply, as if that was enough.  
  
Hawke realized that there would be no other explanations, the decision was made, and the matter taken care of. For one reason or another they wanted him in Tevinter, that was the only explanation he could come up with. But why? And could he afford to care? Probably not.  
  
"When do we leave," he finally asked.  
  
"At dawn. We have no desire to keep the Bas Saarebas longer than is needed."  
  
"Dawn it is then," he agreed, wondering how in the name of the Maker he was going to get any sleep tonight.


	10. Chapter 10

The Qunari had been true to their word. At dawn Hawke had been escorted to the harbor, and the ship that would take him across the Northern Passage. It was a smallish fishing vessel crewed by humans, though they were as deeply Qunari as any oxmen. It was obvious they didn’t really relish their task, when Anders was brought forth they whispered prayers to spirits they still believed in despite the teachings of the Qun. Anders.   
  
Maker.  
  
The mage had been chained and hobbled like a Qunari Saarebas. No mutilation yet, but Hawke could see the skin under the heavy chains turning red and chafed. But it was the look on his face that scared Hawke the most. It was… not the man he loved. Nor was it the blank stare of a tranquil. This was a wild beast, leashed but straining against its containment. There were only vague traces of intelligence in the expressive eyes, but enough to make Hawke take a step back. It was as if someone had taken everything that was human, kind, loving and intelligent from the mage and buried it, leaving a half instinctual… thing behind. Like the Qunari said. A dangerous thing. A Saarebas. His lover had been turned to a weapon, and it twisted Hawke’s gut to see it.  
  
A short wand had been pushed in Hawke’s hand, and he had forced himself to pay attention when the Ben-Hassrath had explained how it worked. How commands could be given. How punishments could be administered. And, finally, and with great reluctance, how the shackles could be removed and the enchantments that kept the mage’s spirit contained could be broken. Hawke knew they didn’t want to tell him, and the only reason they did so was because they also told him one other thing. How the mage could be leashed once more. He wouldn’t have to destroy this wand to free Anders, no; they wanted him to keep it. Hawke was not an idiot. He understood that. They had given him a last resort. A just in case.  
  
He still wanted to kill them. The lot of them. For doing this. For doing this to Anders, who sometimes was an idiot but sometimes was the best man he had met in this forsaken cesspool of a world. A man whose biggest crime was that he believed in something bigger than himself. Believed that people were people, no matter what they were born as, and that they should be treated with respect. Not fear. Hawke might disagree on methods or details, but he had admired the mage’s conviction. Even before he fell in love with him. To see him turned into this… that was a travesty he wasn’t sure he was willing to forgive. Not that he had any choice. Not at the moment. Instead he had boarded the ship and prayed for swift passage.  
  
…  
  
In the dank darkness of the hold, the gravity of their situation was truly beginning to sink in. The ship smelled of fish and despair, and the creaking of the sails and wooden hull only barely distracted from Anders’ ragged breathing. Hawke spent his time trying to sleep, curled up next to the mage whom he had ordered to lie down. Ordered. Like a beast. He would lie there, feeling the ship rock back and forth in the waves, feeling the mage stir uneasily in his slumber. Did he dream? Did he even know Hawke was there? He wasn’t sure, but he hoped so. By the Maker he hoped so. At least fear made the sailors swift enough, they knew the waters and the wind, and it was not that many days before he was called up on the deck, watching a shadowy line of land stretching across the horizon. Neither of the fishermen spoke more than a few words in a language other than Qunari, but it was not hard to understand the eagerness with which they wanted to get rid of them both. As they approached the forested shoreline they lowered a small rowboat, gesturing for Hawke and the mage to get in.  
  
"Refuge, thataway," the oldest of the pair explained with a wave of his hand. "One day. Walk."  
  
"I take it you’re not worrying about getting your little boat back then," Hawke said caustically, taking great pleasure in ordering Anders past them, watching the terrified sailors back off as they climbed into the rowboat.  
  
"Go. Thataway," the man explained again, pointing west along the sandy beach. "Go. Now."   
  
"If I tip this blasted boat and drown, I’m going to haunt you and your descendants," Hawke muttered as he grabbed the oars. "And you’re not getting the boat back." The last bit as an angry shout at a fate he hadn’t chosen.  
  
It didn’t look like the sailors cared, not if one were to judge by the speed with which they set off for the open sea, leaving Hawke to be carried ashore by the helpful waves.  
  
He didn’t drown. Not today.  
  
…  
  
The seawaters seeped into his boots as he dragged the boat ashore, then carried the supplies further up the beach. He had no idea about the tides, and he didn’t want to take any chances on them carrying off the boat with all their stuff when he wasn’t looking. The beach seemed safe enough, a few yards of sand between the thick forest and the sea. He knew he was putting things off, and once he knew that he knew he couldn’t ignore his own knowledge, so eventually he had to force himself to just stop fidgeting and turn his attention to the mage. Anders just stood there, quietly, watching every move the rogue made. No words. Just staring. Unnerving in his stillness.  
  
"Oh Anders, the messes you get me into," Hawke sighed, walking over to his lover. He hadn’t been given a key to the chains, and honestly he hadn’t asked for one. Locks held no secrets from him; his tools had survived the wreck, carefully concealed in the lining of his pants. His fingers were stiff, but the locks clicked open, and one by one the chains came off. As they were removed, Hawke tossed each of them far into the undergrowth. He didn’t want to see them again. But the chains were only the physical part of the entrapment of the mage, the mind was the cage, and here he could only trust the word of the Qunari. Still, if they wanted them both dead, they would be. So, with a nervous frown on his face, Hawke twisted the wand into the right configuration, sending the mage tumbling to the sand as if his strings had been cut.  
  
"Anders?" Hawke asked fearfully, dropping the wand in the sand as he hunched down in front of his lover.  
  
"Maker have mercy," the mage gasped but didn’t look up at Hawke. He didn’t seem to be talking to him either, but to some unnamed entity. "Not him, please, I can’t face that. Not now…"  
  
"You’re babbling," Hawke said, as if the mage needed assurance of that fact.  
  
"I’m dead," Anders said with the smallest of bitter half-laughs. "I’m allowed to babble."  
  
"You’re not dead," Hawke assured, reaching out to cup the mage’s scruffy chin in his hand so he could lift his head and look him in the eyes.  
  
"So you’re not some specter sent to torment me then?" the mage asked, cautiously hopeful.  
  
"Well, I could whip up some torment if you really insist," Hawke joked, feeling lightheaded from relief.  
  
"As long as it involves you without pants I wouldn’t mind either chains or whips. Well, whips anyway. Chains, not so much." He frowned and rubbed his chafed wrists, still looking disoriented.  
  
"That could be arranged. Later. Right now you’re lucky you don’t have to deal with me hugging you and sobbing from relief."  
  
"I wouldn’t mind the hugging," Anders confessed. "I still feel… dead. I thought I was… Maker, what happened?"  
  
Hawke moved around the mage so he could sit down and hug him from behind, wrapping both legs and arms around the mage’s shivering form. He felt on the verge of hysteria, but at least there would be no sobbing. Not now.  
  
"You saved our lives," he begun, resting his chin on Anders’ shoulder. "In the shipwreck. That trick with the ice worked, it held until we drifted ashore."  
  
"I thought I died there," Anders mused. "I remember thinking it wasn’t such a bad way to go. I even stopped being cold, everything was warm and strangely comfortable. If I have a choice, that’s the way I’m gonna go. Better than blade or fire."  
  
"You nearly did die. We both did. But we were found. Qunari. Luckily they didn’t kill us on sight, but they figured you for a mage and chained you up like one of theirs."   
  
"I… half remember that. I thought I was dead. I thought this was the Maker’s punishment for what I had done. That I would have to spend the rest of eternity paying by being a… thing. Everything I feared. Maker, I never thought anything could be worse than being made tranquil, but now I’m not so sure."  
  
"This is reversible," Hawke pointed out.  
  
"It’s worse than possession," the mage argued. "When Justice was taking over I felt like a passenger in my own body, unable to control what he was doing. But this was worse. I felt like a passenger in my own corpse. Everything was twisted, painful, and wrong. Obeying orders just eased the discomfort."  
  
"You’re free now, It’s over." Hawke swallowed hard, glad he had never had to face anything like that.  
  
"Like I needed more nightmares, right?" Anders actually laughed, then asked "What happened? Why did they let me go? The ones we met in Kirkwall wanted to slay me on the spot."  
  
"Don’t ask," Hawke sighed. "Trust me, it’s better that way."  
  
"Didn’t I tell you pretty much the same thing?" the mage asked pointedly. "And you told me that was the stupidest thing I could have done? That I should have come clean with you?"  
  
"I did, and it was, and you should have," Hawke agreed. "But I understand why you did it now. And you owe me one."  
  
"I do, don’t I," Anders admitted.  
  
"You really, really do. In fact, I had a few ideas how to…" Hawke broke off, tensing as he heard movement in the undergrowth. "Anders…"  
  
"I hear them, love," Anders replied, tensing as well. "You think they will go away if we ask them nicely?"  
  
"Since when has that ever worked?" Hawke wondered.  
  
"Well, there was that time with the smugglers…" Anders drawled, shifting slightly in Hawke’s arms as they made themselves ready. "No, wait, I forgot that you managed to blow it all by insulting the leader when you wondered if he had stolen the beard from a mangy goat."  
  
"It was a sad looking excuse for a beard," Hawke said, slowly pulling one leg under his body as he listened to the approaching footsteps. "I mean honestly, if you can’t grow a beard, just shave the blasted thing off." He lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. "Can you fight?"  
  
"I don’t have a staff," Anders whispered back. "But I’ll see what I can do."  
  
"Then let’s do this," Hawke didn’t wait for a reply; instead he threw himself backwards, hitting the approaching man straight in the gut. The impact sent them both sprawling, and the beach erupted in confusion.  
  
"Get them," someone shouted, but that was a lot easier said than done.   
  
Hawke rolled to his feet, sending a palmful of sand in the face of the closest man, and then put a dagger in his gut before he could recover. Maker but there was a lot of them coming out of the tree line now, bandits maybe, slavers probably, out to rob or capture them.   
  
Anders pressed both palms against the sand, which sprang to life in glowing green glyphs, propelling his assailants away from the mage. Hawke had no idea how the exhausted man would fare in an extended fight, so he figured he had better end this quickly. He dove and rolled, coming up behind one of the men, cutting his throat with a sweep of his jagged Antivan dagger. He felt less than merciful right now, he had wanted to kill something for a week, and now he finally could let loose.  
  
"Little help here?" Hawke shouted, kicking one man in the gut, the sand shifting treacherously under his feet. He wasn’t at his best being the center of attention, already people were pulling back, getting ready to deal with him en masse.  
  
"Destructive forces of nature, coming right up," Anders shouted back, sweat forming on his brow as he raised his hands towards the heavens, flames erupting all around them. The stench of burnt hair and flesh filled the air, sending several men fleeing to the ocean, vainly trying to extinguish the flames.   
  
"That’s more like it," Hawke laughed, sidestepping a blow from a shield, cutting the throat of the man that held it. He knew he shouldn’t enjoy this so much, people were dying here, but Maker, right now he didn’t bloody care. If they wanted to live they could run, it wasn’t like they had a better fate in store for their victims Hawke figured. Cockroaches of humanity the lot of them. This wasn’t a duel, this was slaughter, but there was an art to it. Precise strikes, targeting gaps in armored sides, exposed throats and eyes. Loping off a hand, sending the sword tumbling to the ground, then burying the Bassrath-Kata in his eye. Dodge and weave, watch people stumble over each other in their attempt to get a clean blow in, then strike when their backs were turned.   
  
It took him a moment to realize that all bodies had actually stopped moving, leaving him standing in a circle of dead men, out of breath and covered in gore. Anders was still on his knees, laughing hysterically, the ground around him blackened and burnt.  
  
"You alright there?" he asked the mage, blinking a bit as he saw the charred corpses. Maker, Anders had been busy.  
  
"As long as you don’t ask me to stand up," the apostate said, dropping on his back in the sand.  
  
"I think you’ve done enough," Hawke said, cleaning his daggers on the shirt of one of the men. "Was afraid you’d be weak from what you’d been through. Glad that wasn’t the case."  
  
"There’s…" Anders shaded his eyes against the sun as he looked over at Hawke. "I had been experimenting with some things back in Kirkwall. Lyrium was becoming scarcer by the day and… there was this… idea I had. That I read about."  
  
"Idea…" Hawke said tensely, pulling the armor off a body that looked to be his size. He wasn’t planning on going into Refuge dressed in Qunari armor, from what he had been told it was a small smuggler community, tied to the Tevinter slave trade. "It’s blood magic, isn’t it?"  
  
"Maker, no," Anders exclaimed in horror. "It’s just… when people die, their departure weakens the veil for just a moment, and a skilled mage can use that to rejuvenate themselves."  
  
"Because eating their souls is so much better than blood magic," Hawke drawled, his voice sharp and filled with barbs.  
  
"It’s not their souls," Anders groaned. "It’s energy from the fade; it’s just the deaths that make it easier to access."  
  
"If you say so," Hawke said, trying to quiet the doubts he had. "That wasn’t Tevinter books you read it in by any chance?" He undid the clasps of his armor, stripping down.  
  
"We are going to the actual Tevinter," Anders sighed, watching Hawke undress. "Don’t tell me you are going to chew me out over a book."  
  
"What I am going to do is clean off these sorry bastards’s blood, then grab what gear they have. We’ve got a day on the road to Refuge, and I figured we’d have a better shot at getting there in one piece if we look the part."  
  
"Give me a hand up love," Anders said, smiling weakly at the rogue. "Still a bit unsteady on my legs."  
  
"I’m not going to carry you," Hawke warned. "That only works for Merril. She’s cuter than you by far. And lighter."  
  
"But I can do the puppy dog eyes," Anders complained, nearly collapsing into Hawke’s arms when he was pulled upright. He held on tightly for a moment, then said with a low, intense voice "You mean the world to me Hawke. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. Nothing."  
  
Hawke returned the embrace, holding the mage tightly for a moment before he spoke. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I don’t want safe. I never wanted safe.” That was the honest truth, but Maker’s breath, he wouldn’t mind a bit of a breather by now. His gaze went unbidden to the wand that lay half buried in the sand, wishing he had thrown it away with the chains. He could still do it.  
  
But he didn’t.  
  
…  
  
And thus it was two rather bedraggled mercenaries that eventually walked into the small port of Refuge, armed with weapons and coin enough to buy them a safe spot on a smuggler ship bound for Tevinter. No questions asked. No answers given.   
  
They were on the last leg of their journey now, and Hawke hoped that they would find what they sought at the end of it. At least things couldn’t get worse.


	11. Chapter 11

Carastes. Once a gleaming jewel in the crown of the Tevinter Imperium, the gateway to the east and to the Arlathan forest. Now, like so many other things it was but a shadow of its former self, filled with refugees from the Qunari wars. It reminded him of Kirkwall, Hawke thought to himself, except here slavery had never actually been outlawed, and thus the bustling markets were filled with human flesh as well as fish, poultry and trinkets from around Thedas. Oh, sure, there were wonders as well; the aqueducts carrying water from the distant hills, the magnificent buildings slowly crumbling around its inhabitants, and statues of heroes he never even knew existed. Everything that could be smuggled on a ship was sold in the streets here, changing hands for further transport within the Imperium. Not everybody chanced the longer sail to Minrathous itself, not through an ocean infested with Qunari dreadnoughts. It was a safer option to dock here and have things transported by caravan on the Imperial Highways, even if the profits became slightly less. Not for the first time Hawke gave Varric a grateful thought, the dwarf had explained economics to him when he got a share in that accursed mine. Supply and demand. Here, the demand was endless, but the supply did its best to keep up. Something that suited him and Anders just fine.  
  
"You’re smiling again," Hawke remarked to the mage, who seemed to be in as sunny a mood as he had ever seen him.  
  
"Oh, thank you for the heads up," Anders replied, tearing himself away from the seller of staves and magical artifacts whose wares he had been browsing through. "I wasn’t aware that was why my cheeks hurt. The regularly scheduled glower will resume in minutes."  
  
"Oh keep the glower safely packed away for now," Hawke laughed, patting the mage’s shoulder. "I only pointed it out because it has been a long time since I saw you smile like that."  
  
"It has been a long time since I could walk down the street and be myself and not be afraid to be judged for it. In fact, it is the first time ever, apart from a few chaotic months as a Grey Warden, and most of them were spent fending off Darkspawn and Brood Mothers and crazy ghosts. Not exactly the best admiring audience, and don’t even let me get started on their sense of interior decoration." Anders shivered visibly and ran a finger across the length of an elaborately carved staff, awaking glimmers of blue lightning within. Here things like this were commonplace, not dangerous contraband, and vendors competed for the attention of passing mages, eager for their patronage.  
  
"You always did like to strut your stuff," Hawke mused. He should be more worried about their surroundings, but Anders enthusiasm was just so very infectious.  
  
"And who are you to talk," the blonde replied with a roguish grin. "I saw the way you preened when people called you Champion."  
  
"I don’t preen," Hawke scoffed, trying to look annoyed.  
  
"You do. And worry about your receding hairline." The mage tossed the words out innocently, like caltrops wreathed in flowers.  
  
"I do not have a receding hairline," he protested, the annoyance coming easily this time around.    
  
"Isn’t that why you keep your hair that short?"  Anders was all sweetness and light, innocently picking up a different staff, this one straight and military-looking.  
  
"I keep my hair that short because it’s easier to keep clean," Hawke explained, running a hand over his shorn head, looking worried. "You try cleaning blood from long hair, things tangle. I’m not sure how Aveline deals with it."  
  
"No blood would have the nerve to try to stick to her hair," Anders pointed out, reaching for a different staff, adorned with crow feathers and beaded braids of… Maker, was that human hair? The mage frowned and put it back. "And if you’re that worried, you could always get a bow and fight from a safer distance, like Sebastian. Andraste’s knickers, he was an ass, but he sure kept his armor nice and shiny."  
  
Having found nothing that fulfilled his standards, the mage left the vendor with a dismissive wave, nearly managing to trip over a redheaded elf as he stepped out in the street. His stammered excuses to the angry apprentice made Hawke smile to himself, extracting the mage before things could escalate. There had been something faintly familiar about the woman, or perhaps it was just that her scowl reminded him of Fenris. To be fair, every glowering elf reminded him of the former slave, and of the look he had given Hawke when the rogue shoved the dagger in his side in the Gallows courtyard. He shook his head, trying to put that nasty memory out of his head, happily allowing himself to be dragged along by Anders as they cut through an alley towards the distant docks.  
  
"I think that white and shiny armor was the doing of Andraste herself," Hawke said, trying to get back on track, wondering when Sebastian would come back to bite them in the ass. The prince was stubborn and stuck to his schemes of revenge, that much he had learned over the years. But this was not a day for brooding. "He kept her face on his crotch after all," he continued lightly. "But alas, bows are not for me. I like the close personal touch too much." And he was not afraid to prove it by copping a feel.  
  
"Hey, no groping in the street," the mage protested, but the smile that played on his lips spoke differently.  
  
"Technically we are in an alley," Hawke offered, pushing Anders up against one of the grimy walls, never minding if he got dirt on the mage’s new robes.  
  
"Oh, alright," the mage breathed, voice husky with want. "Resume groping then."  
  
Hawke did better than that, he kept the mage trapped, one leg shoved between Anders’, kissing him deeply, both hands pinned against the wall. Maybe it was the fact that he was feeling bad about not telling the mage the entire truth. Maybe it was relief that they had gotten here safely. Maybe it was guilt over Fenris. Maybe there was just something so very enticing about manhandling a mage in Tevinter of all places. Or maybe it was just that damn, goofy infectious smile that was getting to him. He’d missed that smile.  
  
"And," Hawke said, once he finally managed to break off from the kiss, feeling a bit lightheaded and more than a little horny. "I am not losing my hair."  
  
"You just keep on telling yourself that," the mage smirked in reply.  
  
But, an alley was neither a safe nor a comfortable place to conduct any illicit dalliances, so reluctantly they had to get on with their quest of finding Anders a staff he could be satisfied with. A staff wasn’t just a weapon here in Tevinter; it was a sign of status. A sign that the bearer was a mage, someone to be reckoned with and respected. Some were too showy, some too tall, some overly elaborate to the point of making them less than useful in a fight. Hawke rolled his eyes and followed, doing his best to look interested as the mage debated the virtues of various kinds of wood. Maker’s breath, was this how he and Isabela had sounded, crooning over their daggers? If so it was no wonder that Anders tended to excuse himself and be the one to get the drinks. He had always suspected the mage of being a bit jealous, but now he realized he had probably just been bored. Luckily, after meandering all the way down to the docks, they finally found something that seemed to fit both Anders sense of style and purpose, carved in sleek black walnut, with a jagged blade on top. Back in the south it could easily be passed off as a spear, but here it simply marked the mage as a practical and dangerous man. Not as the goofball he presently acted like.  
  
"So how does it feel?" Hawke asked as Anders kept running a hand over the haft of his new weapon.   
  
"Got a good heft to it," Anders mused, making a few sweeps that made the beggars rush out of his way.  
  
"Not the staff, silly, being here." Hawke wondered if the mage was even aware of how he was being treated. Even the beggars left them alone, and he thought he had seen more than one pick-pocket turn around for easier prey once they got wind of what the mage was. Or what they feared he was. "Surrounded by blood mages."  
  
"I try not to think about that bit too much," Anders confessed, eyebrows arching in their familiar worry-wrinkle. "It’s not like they’re prancing around cutting themselves in the streets, bleeding hapless slaves in the town square."  
  
"Templars kept their oppression under wraps too," Hawke shrugged. "All I’m saying is; don’t get too comfortable."  
  
"Don’t do this Hawke, please." Anders sighed, giving the rogue a tired look. "It’s hard enough trying to keep Him from being roused as it is. Don’t make it worse."  
  
"I could manage to get some other things aroused instead," Hawke offered lightly. But he had to wonder how much of the mage’s reluctance to talk about these matters was fear of Justice, and how much was just him avoiding the situation.  
  
"You could," Anders agreed, and from the look it wouldn’t be that hard. "But that wouldn’t help end our involuntary threesome."  
  
"You’ve managed to get permission to view the Archives then?" Hawke tensed a little as he saw a line of slaves being led ashore from a one of the slaver ships. The smell was always what got to him; human despair had a special acrid stench to it. Or, well, elf despair too for that matter. He was glad to feel that Anders had tensed up beside him as well.  
  
"Not yet," the mage grimaced, answering both Hawke’s asked and unasked questions. They couldn’t change the entire world. Not at once. Slavery was a travesty, on that they could both agree, but for now a travesty out of their hands. "They’re not going about giving out access to every mage that travels here on a wing and a prayer."  
  
"You’re not every mage though." Hawke wished that wasn’t true, but it was.   
  
"I’d rather keep that bit under wraps," Anders said with a wince, scratching the back of his neck.  
  
"Uncomfortable with the thought of being viewed as a hero in Tevinter?" The words were half teasing, half truth.   
  
"Maker, yes," Anders confessed. "Besides, we still have a lot of coin left from the things you stole from the Qunari."  
  
"Yes, stole…" Hawke said, grimacing a little. The lie was for a good cause he told himself. The mage didn’t need to know how he had been manipulated, how his revolution had been used for other purposes. "Just remember that we have to live too. It’s not a cheap town to stay in."  
  
"I have other things to trade than coin if need be," Anders said, cutting off Hawke with a glance before the rogue could interject. "And no, not my ass, that’s all yours. I’m talking about knowledge. Facts about the Deep Roads for one thing. The Archivists seemed very interested in that. I’ll work something out with them."  
  
"You… mentioned that you were a Grey Warden?" Hawke gave Anders a disbelieving look.  
  
"I might have let something slip, yes. They said that they might be able to give me what I needed when I returned today." Anders sounded eager to get to their destination, as if he couldn’t wait for the good news.  They were almost back at the Archives by now; the large, whitewashed tower was located right at the edge of the harbor.  
  
"Anders…" Hawke cautioned.  
  
"What? What now?" The mage gave his lover a confused look.  
  
"And just how many Grey Warden mages from the south do you think that there are who would be interested in researching spirit possession, and happen to share your good looks?" Sometimes the mage was woefully naive, Hawke thought to himself. No wonder the Templars always caught him.  
  
"I don’t see what…" Anders argued, falling silent as they came within reach of the massive copper doors of the Archives themselves. And within sight of the crowd that had formed there. The cheering crowd. "Oh, that," he said with a stricken look on his face.  
  
"Yes. That." Hawke was trying his best not to smile. "Better get your best revolutionary hero of Kirkwall face on, the welcoming committee has finally caught up with you."  
  
"Andraste’s furry knickerweasel…" Anders cursed through clenched teeth. "Can we run? Please tell me we can run. I’m not Varric; I don’t do that well with an audience."  
  
"Suck it up and smile for the crowd," Hawke smirked, patting the mage on the back. "I’ll be right behind you."  
  
"Guarding my back or watching my ass?"   
  
"You know me, what do you think?" came the innocent reply.  
  
"I think you are enjoying this far too much… Champion." Anders hissed the last word, but Hawke shook his head.  
  
"This is your show. Here, I’m just your bodyguard. Nobody will pay attention to me."  
  
…  
  
Hawke hadn’t realized how prophetic those last words had been. After he had been named the Champion of Kirkwall he had been used to being the center of attention. Aveline had been annoyed with it more than once, they had many an argument over the fact that people turned to the Champion instead of to the Captain of the Guard when it came to the problems of the city. He hoped she had managed to get some semblance of a life back by know, and knowing the tall woman, she probably had. Even when she had been serving in Kirkwall she had offers to return to the Ferelden army, and from what he had seen of King Alistair, the man seemed to be a fair enough sort. Not as averse to mages as others of his kind, and with a sense of humor Hawke could appreciate. Though the latter would probably infuriate Aveline, but she was always at her best when she had someone to be annoyed at. He had no idea how she and Isabela had ended up such friends in the end. Opposites attracted he supposed. Maker knew he had been considering trying his luck with Fenris after he had just met the elf, and that would have been a match made in… well, he wasn’t sure where. Probably not in a good place.  
  
This was a better one. By far. Crazy possessed revolutionary mage and all.  
  
…  
  
As he had predicted, Anders had been heralded as a hero of the revolution. The mage might claim that he didn’t want the attention, but by the Maker, he thrived on it all the same.  Hawke hoped that nobody else was able to spot the small ticks when he saw how his fellow mages treated their slaves, or the reckless ease with which they shed the blood of others to work their magic. There had been more than one occasion when Hawke had to put a steadying hand on the mage’s arm to keep him from lashing out, something that always gave them odd looks. But, he had been accepted as Anders’ lover as well as bodyguard, and it turned out that a lot of the mages surrounded themselves with people who did not share their talents. Safe people. People dependent on their whims and protection. Hawke supposed he was one of them now.  
  
It wasn’t like what he saw didn’t infuriate him as well, this was a dirty place built on the oppression of the less fortunate, but Anders had always felt a lot stronger about those things. Hawke had mostly been focused on his family and friends, on making that little piece of the world that he could see and grasp a better place. The world at large? Too vast. Too complicated. But Anders was different. He loved that passion in the mage, even if he sometimes couldn’t understand where it came from. How did he keep from succumbing to despair? How did he manage to cling to some hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be changed for the better? His surety made Hawke feel like a fraud at times, now that he had been bereft of both home and family, what did he have left to fight for?   
  
Maybe he was no different than the Tal Vashoth. But every time he felt the urge to actually take up a cause, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that he was already a pawn in too many plots. Did he want to help or hinder? Did he have a choice? That Witch of the Wilds had been right. He was falling. He had managed to find the strength to jump over the edge, but whether he could figure out how to fly was still up in the air. For now, Anders was his mission. Helping him find a cure. Helping him free himself from the spirit within.  
  
There was progress on that front, Anders assured him. There had been vast experimentation with abominations in the past, and a fair bit focusing on how to separate demon from host once their usefulness was ended. Unfortunately the result was often madness or death for the mage in question, especially if it had been going on for as long as it had for Anders.  And, worse, a lot of the methods for dealing with these things were tightly tied to blood magic. Which the mage still abhorred. More and more, his lover had taken to burying himself in his research, leaving Hawke free to explore the city on his own.  
  
Not that he minded. There was a freedom in being able to prowl the streets as a nobody; watching from the shadows as mages dueled one another over slights real or imagined. It reminded him on his first year in Kirkwall, before Varric, before fame and fortune and friends. Just him and his blades, responsible for nothing but his own skin. And for the safety of those that awaited him when he returned. Then it had been his mother and sister, now it was Anders. Less lecturing and more sex, the hugs being about equal. Hawke smiled a little at that last thought, at least his mother didn’t have to live long enough to see their downfall. To see their mansion being burned to the ground. To have to lose her home a third time. He was absurdly grateful for that, he would hate to let her down. Again.  
  
"Excuse me?" came a quiet female voice, distracting him from his musings.  
  
"Yes?" Hawke answered, smiling down at the redhead. Maybe it was the fact that he had been thinking about families, but this time the familiar features made something click. "Oh… shit," he managed to gasp before the world turned itself inside out and the ground rushed up to meet him in a sea of stars.  
  
Then the stars went out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be triggering things in this one, torture, allusions to rape.

The air smelled of piss and stale desperation when Hawke came to. His arms were wrenched painfully upwards against the wall where he was slumped. He had to shift to ease the strain on his wrists, making the heavy chains clank menacingly against the cold stone. The cell was dark, illuminated only by the faint light shining through the bars on the door, casting striped shadows on the floor in front of him. He was naked, cold, his head hurt, and he was not alone. That last little fact he had almost missed until the other shape shifted and spoke.  
  
"Hawke." The voice was intimately familiar in its low gravelly tone, the fodder of dreams and nightmares both. "I did not think you were going to wake up."   
  
"You know me. Always a late riser," Hawke joked, eyes narrowing. It couldn’t be. But it was. Fenris. There was no mistaking that shock of white hair against the shadowed stones behind him, nor the Lyrium tattoos that caught the faint light and glittered strangely in the darkness. Or the voice. Maker that voice.  
  
"Humor again. I have not missed that." The elf was as naked as Hawke was, and as much of a prisoner.  
  
"I stabbed you," Hawke said, pushing himself back against the wall, The chains were heavy and clamped tightly to his wrists, he wanted to give his hands the chance to stop tingling.   
  
"I have been stabbed before," the elf shrugged. "Perhaps you are not as skilled as you believe you are."  
  
"How did you get here?" Hawke asked, deciding to ignore the barb. It was a strange mixture of relief and annoyance talking to the elf. On one hand he was glad that the former slave was not dead by his hand, on the other hand it was Fenris. Who had decided to betray his friends instead of his principles, and take up arms against the mage rebellion even if it meant killing people he’d been sharing drinks with for years. Maker preserve him from people with causes.  
  
"I was collected after the battle by your blood mage allies," the elf said dryly. "Though you failed to kill me, I was gravely injured. They healed my wounds and brought me back here."  
  
"I am no ally of Tevinter," Hawke said, raising his voice.   
  
"No," the elf admitted. "You are their tool."  
  
"Maker but you’re full of it," Hawke replied hotly. "I helped you kill your former master, doesn’t that count for something?"  
  
"It did," Fenris nodded. "Right until your personal abomination decided to turn Kirkwall into another Tevinter."  
  
"That was never Anders plan, and you know it."  
  
"And yet he is walking down that path. You saw it happen with Merrill, does love really make you this blind?"  
  
"Look," Hawke sighed. "Let’s not start that argument again. I’m glad I didn’t kill you; can we focus on getting out of here? Wherever here is."  
  
"This is the dungeons of the House of Danarius," the elf said dispassionately. "One of them. Not the one I am familiar with in Minrathous, but they have holdings elsewhere as well."  
  
"I was in Carastes last I checked, doesn’t feel like too much time has passed. Think we’re probably still there." Hawke hoped so, that meant that Anders might feasibly find them if he failed to get them… no. He would get them out. He had to believe that.   
  
"Carastes." Fenris sounded as disinterested as if he had been talking about the weather. "Yes, I remember visiting Carastes."  
  
"Maker’s breath," Hawke sighed, testing the chains. Sturdy. He had no tools. Stripped of his clothes, he’d lost his hidden lock picks too. "It was Varania that got to me, I hardly recognized her."  
  
"My sister is an apprentice now," Fenris spoke the last words as if they had been poison in his mouth. "It seems she decided to repay you sparing her life by ruining yours."  
  
"That’s what I get for being nice," Hawke groaned. Grace. Varania. Keran. Really, he would be better off being an utter bastard.  
  
"No, that is what you get for trusting a mage."  
  
"Mages are people, just like everybody else," Hawke argued.  
  
"Then why is your Anders not here?" The words were dismissive, almost jealous.  
  
"We were not together when they brought me in. He’ll find out what happened." Hawke had to believe that.  
  
"No, he won’t. He is a mage. He will be seduced by the power he wields here and forget about you. What is love compared to power?" Fenris would have scoffed had not every word from his lips already sounded like one.  
  
"Aha, so you do admit that he loves me then." This was an intimately familiar dance with Hawke.   
  
"Less than he loves what he is. Or his mad cause. He already betrayed you once by going behind your back and blow up the Chantry."  
  
"You’re no mage and you betrayed me as well." Hawke decided to ignore what the elf was saying, even if it rung painfully true.  
  
"No, I told you openly that I disagreed with your decision, and then stood by my convictions. I never lied to you."  
  
Hawke had to admit the elf had a point. An annoying stubborn point, but a point none the less. “So, what happens now?”  
  
"Most likely torture."   
  
"What, why?"  
  
"Because neither of us is easy to control by blood magic. They cannot count on that to keep us docile for transport. And I do believe they intend to ship us to Minrathous eventually."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"I found that out the hard way," Fenris said, sounding disinterested as if he was talking about someone else. "They could no longer wipe my memories as easily as they had before. Do you remember the ritual that the Dalish Keeper performed on us when she brought us into the Fade?"  
  
Hawke scoffed a bit, but then nodded tiredly. “I do. Should have learned from that. First time you turned on me.”   
  
The ritual had been ancient and untested, and the Keeper had only agreed to perform it to attempt to save the life of the boy Feynriel, who had apparently been destined to be one of the great mages of their time. Had been that is, until Hawke had been forced to kill him and erase his mind to keep him from becoming possessed by demons and threatening all of existence. The ritual had brought them into the Fade, the realm of dreams and magic, normally out of reach for people without magical talent like him or Fenris. There they had to face the temptations that mages faced every night they fell asleep. And they had failed.  
  
"I became aware of my own weakness there," Fenris admitted as if he had read Hawke’s mind. "And by becoming aware, it is harder for blood mages to use that to prey on me. I faced down my demons, they have nothing to use against me now. My memories are my own. As are yours. We were changed by our experiences, perhaps permanently."  
  
Hawke wondered if the Keeper had known. She had admitted she only half understood the ancient elven ritual she was performing, but thought the risk was worth it to prevent a greater horror. Fenris spoke the truth; they had all faced down their demons in the end. Fenris had faced his pride, the one thing the former slave sought more than the death of his master. Isabela had fallen prey to her desires, for the fastest ship on the ocean and a life of ease and excitement. Anders had succumbed completely to Justice. And Hawke… for him it had been rage. There had been so much rage in him. No wonder he had failed Feynriel and been forced to sever the boy’s connection to his dreams and magic, leaving him a mindless wreck.  
  
"So we’re screwed then," he sighed at last.   
  
"Yes." The elf was always one for short, succinct answers.  
  
"See, this is a time when it would be okay to lie," Hawke groaned. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"Here specifically? I am not sure. Since I recovered from the battle. Weeks at least."  
  
"And you haven’t been able to get out?"  
  
"They know what I am. What I can do.  They take no risks and keep me chained at all times."  
  
"Even when they torture you?"  
  
"Especially when they torture me."  
  
Hawke envied the way the elf could speak of these things so dispassionately, like they were happening to somebody else. Most likely he had been through worse as a slave. “What do they know about me then?” he finally asked.  
  
"That you are the Champion that slew the Arishok in single combat. That you helped slay one of their Magisters. The first would make you a choice pick for the arena, the last is a sentence to a painful death by torture. I would not care to place a bet on which path they choose."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"They will keep working on me until I break and they can retrain me as their obedient slave."  
  
"That doesn’t sound very likely."  
  
"It is not."  
  
"So I take it you wouldn’t mind tagging along when I break out of here then?" Hawke smiled; even in the dim light he could see the doubting, surprised look on the elf’s face.  
  
"And how are you planning to do that?" The words were caustic, but filled with cautious hope.  
  
"Oh, I’m not sure yet," Hawke admitted. "But I’ll come up with something." And he had better come up with it fast.  
  
…  
  
"It is alright if you scream," the robed woman said evenly, pausing in her work on the shivering form before her.   
  
"All things considered, I’d rather not," Hawke coughed, forcing himself to smile at her. "Hell on the dignity."  
  
"Dignity," she smiled, looking over the naked man where he hung suspended and helpless in the room. "That is amusing considering the circumstances."  
  
"Glad you think so," Hawke said, trying his best to look at her face and not the small table of tools she kept running her hands over. Damn slavers knew all the best ways of hurting people without damaging them permanently it seemed. "I aim to please."  
  
"No, Serah Hawke," she teased back. "If you did you would be on your knees right now, begging to be allowed to live and serve the House of Danarius."  
  
"Oh, I guess that’s why I never got the hang of pleasing people then." He swallowed down a shiver when she touched the brutal scar on his stomach where the Arishok had stabbed him. Scars he could deal with. Swords and axes and clubs. Not her damnable little blades and needles that looked more at home in a sewing kit, but made him want to scream more than dragon venom had.  
  
"It is alright, Serah Hawke. I love my work. It would be a shame if you broke too easily." Her fingers found the edge of the scar where the nerves had healed badly, pushing the small blade inside, causing the man before her to convulse in agony.  
  
"Oh Maker," Hawke gasped. He had bitten his tongue, his mouth tasted of blood and fear, but he hadn’t screamed. He hoped. His wrists were raw from struggling.  
  
"I doubt that the Maker is listening any more now than he listened when Archon Hessarian put Andraste to the flames."  
  
"I think…" Hawke gasped, smiling with bloodied teeth. "I think he’s probably just tired of hearing people use his name for a curse." He was rewarded with a frown on the woman’s cold face. Right now he’d take any victory he could get.  
  
"You have a remarkable resilience to pain Serah Hawke; I suppose I should not be surprised." She put the blade to her lips, licking it clean thoughtfully. "You do have quite a reputation."  
  
"I choose to take that as a compliment," the rogue smirked, trying to keep himself from shivering. By now he was covered by a multitude of small cuts and wounds, blood trailing over his pale, sweaty skin like tattoos.  
  
"But that simply means we have to choose other ways to break you," she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. "Perhaps it is time for some mutilation," she smiled, shark-like in her cruelty. "I wonder how long your composure will last once we start removing bits of you. The toes first I think. You don’t need that many of them."  
  
Hawke winced and curled up his feet, he couldn’t keep the fear from his face now, pain was something that he could tell himself would pass. Being maimed meant life changed forever. No toes. No balance. Hobbling. He squirmed helplessly as she hunched down, a small curved knife in her hand as she reached for his foot. “I take that back,” he gasped, begging a little and hating himself for it. “I can scream if you want to. I promise. I’m a good screamer.”  
  
The joke fell flat, her smile widened and she grabbed a secure hold of his left foot. “Oh you will scream,” she assured him, blade prodding his skin.  
  
"Maiming him was not part of your task," a male voice interrupted from behind, and Hawke realized to his relief and horror that they had been watched all along.  
  
"Spoilsport," she spat, but let go of Hawke’s foot all the same. "Do you truly wish to keep this one intact?" She rose to her feet, patting Hawke’s hip a little as if he had been just a slab of meat she had to leave for later.  
  
"We discussed this already," the man replied. "Once tamed he will be a useful slave. We will need useful slaves."  
  
"Oh brother-in-law, your arrogance will be your undoing. This one is a worse fighter than the elf."   
  
"I rule the House of Danarius now, and it is not brother-in-law. It is husband. I married you."  
  
"In name only, to keep your sister from having the stronger claim," she scoffed. "We both agree that infighting is not the way to preserve the strength of House Denarius."  
  
"Sounds like that is the only thing you both agree on," Hawke coughed, slowly collecting himself.  
  
"No," corrected the man, reaching out to touch Hawke’s back. "We also agree that you should pay for what you did."  
  
"Sounds like you should pay me," Hawke smirked to hide the shiver. "Seeing as how you are suddenly the top dogs around here." Though not completely on top he supposed, there must be some reason they were stuck here and not in Minrathous.  
  
"He is impossible," she sighed, exasperated. "You work with him, I need to go get cleaned up for the party tonight."   
  
"I’ll miss you," Hawke retorted, keeping very still as the man behind him kept running his hands over his bleeding skin. "Surely a party’s not more interesting than entertaining me,"  
  
"Oh, but it is," she smirked. "It is in the honor of your lover. It will please me greatly to dance with him and think of you, down here."  
  
"Bitch," he snapped, before he could stop himself, only to be rewarded with blinding pain as it felt like the man reached in and set his very blood on fire. Blood magic. Of course. Maybe they couldn’t control his mind if what Fenris said were true, but by the Maker, they could still make him hurt.  
  
"You do not talk to my wife that way," the man warned.  
  
"Duly noted," Hawke gasped, watching the woman exit the room. Oh Maker he was not looking forward to this, but the man had a temper and seemed prone to lose it. He could be goaded where she could not. "Obviously you are the bitch in the family." He steeled himself the moment before the pain hit, but it hardly helped. This time he suspected he had screamed.  
  
"You are a funny man," the blood mage drawled once Hawke could hear again. "My wife thinks she knows much, but she is used to slaves fearing her tender attentions. Not men. She does not understand what it takes to break someone like you."  
  
"And you do?" Hawke had to ask, he couldn’t help himself.  
  
"I do. Take away your pride and you will crumble. Then we can replace the lost pride with duty and servitude."   
  
The hands were uncomfortably intimate where they touched Hawke, causing the rogue to squirm in disgust. Oh Maker, the man was doing what he suspected he would, but that didn’t make it any better. Not by a long shot. On a scale of bad and desperate gamble, this one was a dozy.  
  
…  
  
It was light out by the time that Hawke was dragged back to his cell, though no daylight penetrated the deep recesses of the dungeon. He made no effort to resist when the guards chained him to the wall once more, locking the door behind them as they left. Silence once more filled the room. Silence and the smell of fresher blood.  
  
"Are you conscious?" Fenris asked, rough voice betraying something akin to worry.  
  
"I am now, thanks for asking," Hawke groaned, opening his eyes once more.  
  
"I heard screaming," the elf said.  
  
"Probably somebody else," Hawke offered, swearing weakly to himself as he tried to find a comfortable position on the floor. "It wasn’t me."  
  
"I see," Fenris said. "I understand how that is."  
  
"You would, wouldn’t you." Hawke couldn’t keep a hint of bitterness from his voice.  
  
"I do not agree with you Hawke, but I do respect you. I have no wish to see you broken like this."  
  
"Oh spare me the sympathy." Hawke spat. "You don’t get me any more than they did." He closed his eyes hard to focus, because he was shivering from pain and delayed shock. He needed this anger.   
  
"What do you mean?" the elf asked, clueless as always.  
  
"You keep treating me like I’m some form of warrior or knight, as if I have things like a sense of duty or pride." Hawke knew he sounded slightly hysterical, at least to his own ears.  
  
"You dueled the Arishok," the elf pointed out. "That was an honorable act."  
  
"I dueled the damn horn-head because otherwise he’d take Isabela. To the Maker with honor, rot my pride, I am interested in one thing and one thing only." Anger was good. Anger was necessary.  
  
"What is that then?" the elf asked, eyes narrowing in the dim room.  
  
"I’m interested in staying alive, and in keeping the people I care about alive. The rest is incidental. If I have to…" he broke off, shooting the elf a glance. He didn’t have to say more, he knew the elf had probably been through the same or worse. "It doesn’t matter."  
  
"It does matter," Fenris argued, anger seeping into his voice as well. Passion. "I do not want you dead."  
  
"Good," Hawke snapped back. "Because I am getting us out of here."  
  
"And how exactly do you propose to go about that?"   
  
"I would start by unlocking these chains," Hawke mumbled, slightly muffled as he had to clamp the thin steel needle between his teeth. He’d gone through a lot to get the opportunity to slip that into his mouth as the other man had his way with him, and he wasn’t about to lose it.   
  
The tip of the needle slipped into the lock, it had been some time since he had to unlock something with only his mouth for aid, but thank the Maker that Isabela had the weirdest imagination when drunk. At the time, that was one bet he was not sorry he had lost, but he wouldn’t lose it this time. He tried to focus only on the piece of metal in his mouth and the way it interacted with the lock, ignoring his aching body, ignoring the shivers that threatened to make him tense up and drop the needle. His body was incidental. His memories were useless. He was alive, that was what was important. The rest he could deal with later. He could feel the pressure of the tumblers through his lips and tongue, easing them gently where he wanted them to turn, increasing the pressure until he finally could feel them clicking open, releasing his wrist.   
  
Yes.  
  
"Now…" Hawke spat the needle into his free hand, and then used it to unlock the other cuff. "Now I suggest we get out of here and kill every single man who would think differently."  
  
"Hawke," Fenris said, with utmost sincerity as Hawke worked on the elf’s cuffs. "I like the way you think."  
  
Good, Hawke thought to himself. That made for one of them.


	13. Chapter 13

"Pants first. Then weapons." Hawke hunched down and grimly tugged the clothes from the dead guard. They smelled like they had not been washed in a long time, but right now he’d strip a Genlock if it meant being covered. Being naked made him feel… not good.  
  
"That seems to be an odd order to go about things," Fenris said, keeping watch down the corridor. The elf was dressed only in Lyrium tattoos and scars, but didn’t seem as ill at ease by this fact as Hawke did.  
  
"Right now pants are more important" Hawke snapped, struggling into said garment. "If someone comes, you can always punch your fist through them. Again." It still made him wince, watching the elf do things like that. That was the reason why there was no shirt on his agenda. It was ruined by the bloody crater that had erupted in the guard’s chest when he came to check out what the noise was.  
  
"But you can’t," the elf pointed out.  
  
"Which is why weapons are second on my list," Hawke said, weighing the heavy club of the guard in his hand, and then tossed it to Fenris. He went for the dagger instead. Quicker. Sharper.  
  
The elf caught the club, testing it for balance before he turned back to Hawke, an odd frown on his normally impassive face. “You do realize that what happened here has no bearing on who you are.”  
  
"I do realize that," Hawke said tersely, pulling on the boots. Approximately the right size at least. He’d go barefoot, but it hurt when he kicked things. "Still not gonna remember it fondly." The last words were so quiet only the elf’s damn hearing picked it up.  
  
"I would suggest not remembering it at all." Was that concern? Perhaps.  
  
"Says the man who loves to wallow in his past." Hawke couldn’t help the sharpness of his tone; every word now was a challenge that needed to be answered.  
  
"I… was wrong there" Fenris admitted once they had resumed their careful trek down the corridor." You were the one that advised me to move on."  
  
"I wasn’t aware that you listened to my advice," Hawke knew that was probably unfair, the elf had spared the life of his sister at his insistence. Maybe they both would have been better off if he hadn’t listened.  
  
"Hawke, I valued your advice. In some things at least." The elf put his ear to the locked door at the end of the corridor, listening intently. When he heard nothing, he motioned for Hawke to do his thing.   
  
"Don’t start on Anders," the rogue muttered as he knelt down to pick the lock. "Not now. Is that going to be a problem once we are out of here?" The lock clicked open, and he slid back to his feet, watching the elf cautiously.  
  
"If it is, what will you do?" Fenris was shorter than Hawke by a head, but that had never stopped him from staring down his opponents.  
  
"You know what I will do." Hawke however, was not about to back down from this. He kept one hand on the closed door as he glared back at the elf.  
  
"And yet you broke me out," the elf grimaced, drawing himself up on his toes, nearly nose to nose with the slumping rogue.  
  
"That I did," Hawke replied, not shying away from the glare.  
  
"I… will not interfere this time." Fenris relented, sinking back, running a hand through his pale hair. "Unless he turns against you," he added, almost as an afterthought.  
  
"He will not," Hawke said with conviction.  
  
"So you say," sighed the elf as the door suddenly was opened from outside.  
  
"Hey!" a very surprised guard exclaimed, staring at the pair.  
  
"Hey yourself," said Hawke, stabbing the man in the gut by reflex more than anything else. Unfortunately he was not alone.  
  
Not that Hawke minded. Right now fighting was the simpler choice. He ducked the club and tackled the second guard out in the corridor, clearing a path for Fenris. The elf was half a step behind, sending his club into the face of the staggering guard, breaking his nose as well as knocking him out. Damn, how many were there? Three? Four. He dropped into a roll, stabbing a man in the knee, yanking another dagger from his belt as he went down. It took but a moment to bury it in his throat, cutting off the cry. Fenris swung his club with both hands, hitting the last guard in the stomach so he doubled over, then smashed his head to a pulp. The entire fight had taken hardly a minute, and left them both unscathed.  
  
"Get in uniform," the rogue said as soon as he realized their luck.   
  
"Do you truly think we can sneak out of here undetected?" Fenris said, stripping the smallest of the guards.  
  
"Sneaking out was not what I had in mind," Hawke said with cold fury. The realization had come to him slowly, but he had made his decision.  
  
"What are your plans then?" the elf asked, pausing to look at Hawke with concern.  
  
"To find him and kill him," Hawke said simply as he pushed the helmet down on his head.   
  
"That is not the most intelligent course of action," the elf sighed as he pulled the armor on, trying to tighten the straps enough to make it fit his slighter frame.  
  
"Says the man who spent years brooding over how to kill his former master." Hawke pushed the daggers into his belt, and begun to ´pull the corpses back into the corridor from which they had come. If the were lucky, it would be a little until they were spotted.  
  
"Brooding, yes," the elf admitted, lending a hand. "Not foolhardy leaping into action that can only end badly."  
  
"What would you have me do then?" Hawke asked brusquely, closing the door, scuffing out the worst of the stains in the corridor with his boots. It was badly lit enough that it wouldn’t be too obvious. He hoped.  
  
"Move on. This changes nothing."  
  
"You cannot possibly believe that," Hawke growled, setting a pace down the corridor that the elf had no choice but to match.  
  
"I have spent more time than you can imagine going over every single act committed against me by Danarius," Fenris said, keeping up with the taller man. "It poisoned my life until there was nothing left but hate, where the freedom I had fought so hard for turned to ashes in my hands."  
  
"Shhh," Hawke cautioned, silencing the elf with a gesture.  Footsteps were approaching, and as they turned the corner, they saw two guards approaching down the stairs.  
  
Placing a hand on the hilt of the dagger, Hawke pushed onwards, head lowered so that the helmet would shade his face. They passed close enough on the narrow stairs that he could smell the sourness of bad wine and garlic, but there was no incident. No cry of recognition. No questioning glance. It was Hawke’s experience that guarding anything was terribly dull work, yet another reason why he had never taken Aveline up on her offer to join the guard.   
  
"My mistakes are my own," Fenris said quietly once they were past the guards and on the ground floor of the building. "I would not have you repeat them."  
  
"My choices are my own," Hawke snapped.  
  
"So it would seem," the elf replied. "But I will not follow you in this."  
  
"I never asked you to." Hawke said, pressing on.  
  
"You are being a fool." Fenris reached out to put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, but the rogue shrugged it off.  
  
"That is my choice," he sad, sounding more than a little sullen even to his own ears.  
  
"Unfortunately," the elf agreed. "This is where we part ways then." They had arrived at a door that for all intents and purposes seemed to lead towards the outside, towards freedom and sunlight.  
  
"Apparently," Hawke shrugged, turning down the hallway that led deeper into the building.   
  
He didn’t need the damn elf’s probing looks and disapproving comments. He didn’t bother to call out a goodbye, or a ‘be safe’, or any of the other things that popped into his head. Like why would the elf care about his safety at all, or, did he have any idea how jealous he sounded when it came to Hawke and Anders? Hawke had never been able to guess whether he had been right from the start, and the elf really had flirted with him when they first met. It just seemed so improbable that Fenris would like a closer relationship with anybody. Let along with someone whose sister was a mage.   
  
Besides, it wasn’t like Hawke didn’t know he was being stupid. He was. Utterly and irredeemably so. He went against everything he had told himself in the past, and he really had no idea why. Or, well, he had an idea why, he just didn’t want to think about it. It just felt that until that man was dead, he couldn’t really leave this behind. And Fenris… the fact that the elf knew what had happened to him made him glad he was alone right now. This wasn’t something he wanted to share. This was something he wanted to push down into a deep dark hole and forget about, together with the image of his mutilated mother smiling at him, and the terrible crunch when Carver was smashed into the ground.   
  
It was always easier to forget if you could wipe your memories clean with someone else’s blood. No matter that it hadn’t worked last time, this time it would be different. Besides, he didn’t need the elf, the warrior was not known for his subtlety, and without him it was all too easy to fade into the background of the busy house. Hawke was surprisingly good at not being noticed when he wanted to, and he anticipated he would have maybe half an hour to an hour before the alarm was raised and the house was roused. Now where could that bastard of a mage be hiding? If Hawke knew anything, it was that people with power liked their creature comforts. So, upstairs seemed to be the best bet, which meant he would have to find someone else’s shoes to slip into. Dungeon guards didn’t really travel up here in the more elegant rooms and decorative corridors. This meant another body. More risk. Maker… was this the right thing to do?   
  
Probably not.   
  
But he did it anyway. He interrupted one of the servants, catching him in a chokehold before the man could scream. He hardly made a noise as he lost consciousness, the body turning limp in his arms. Hawke dragged him into a linen closet, the fresh smelling fabrics making him wistful for his mansion back in Kirkwall. Wistful for so many things. He stripped the man and tied him up; there was no reason to kill a servant. He wasn’t that much of a bastard. Not yet. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he wiped his hands and face on a sheet, wondering how badly bruised he looked. It wasn’t as if he would be able to stand up to any closer inspection anyway, he was rather recognizable with his tattoo and everything, and he hardly spoke a word in Tevinter. But, in a house filled with servants, many just looked at the clothes and assumed that nothing was wrong. It would help him if people caught a glance of him, and that was all that he needed. He didn’t plan to get spotted from now on.  
  
Stick to the shadows. Kill the blood mage. Sounded like a simple enough plan.  
  
Except nothing in Hawke’s life was ever simple. It was easy enough to stick to the shadows and avoid attention. It was a completely different matter to find the mage in question. He debated capturing a guard or a servant to threaten them until they revealed where their master was, but from what he had seen of Tevinter slaves none of them would even dare to betray their master. Besides, he wasn’t the most frightening of men even on the worst of days, not like Aveline. He would simply have to do this the hard way, find his bedroom, or his story, or… wait until the alarm was sounded, and the house erupted into chaos. Oops.  
  
That had not been part of the plan, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Maybe he should be flattered at the uproar of guards that suddenly prowled the hallways. Maybe he would have been too, had he not suspected that most of the worries were over what Fenris would do now that he was free. They had no idea that the elf had for once taken the more reasonable path and fled. Hawke wondered what that said about him. Probably not very good things. The one upside to this however, was that it did seem to drag out the master of the house himself to see what was going on.   
  
"What is it?" the blood mage snapped impatiently at the guards that had roused him from his study.  
  
Hawke pressed himself deeper into the shadows where he had hid, concealed by the open door. His mouth was dry and his palms sweaty as he slowly pulled out his dagger, waiting for the shot.  
  
"It is the prisoners Master; they killed the guards and escaped." The guard sounded as if he expected to be executed on the spot, and the flair of red in the mage’s eyes indicated that he wasn’t far wrong.  
  
"What? How?" the mage slammed his staff into the floor, making the guards jump back a bit, cautiously. Hawke nearly jumped as well.  
  
One blood mage. Four guards. The element of surprise on his side. This would be a tough one. Would he get a better shot later? Did he dare to wait for it?  
  
"Picked the locks apparently," the guard said in a tight voice. "Or they had help from the inside."  
  
"Take me down there," the mage growled, pushing past the guards and into Hawke’s line of fire.  
  
There. That was the shot. Hawke let the dagger fly, but at the last moment one of the guards took a wrong step, the dagger hitting his shoulder. The scream startled everybody present, but Hawke recovered first. Him and the mage.  
  
The wounded guard convulsed as a spiral of blood poured out of his wound, covering the hallway in a fine concealing mist. Hawke rolled away from the door, feeling the corrosive energies of blood magic tearing at his sanity. Telling him to stop, to lie down and die, to submit to the power of the mage. Submit.  
  
"Didn’t work last time asshole…" Hawke spat out the words, slashing the throat of one of the guards, but the man didn’t fall down. His eyes rolled back in his head, but the corpse grabbed Hawke’s arm, clinging to it. He buried his dagger in the eye of the third man, but that one kept moving as well.  
  
"My mistake was to underestimate you, Fereldan." The blood mage jerked his hands, the two dead guards now joined by the third. Clumsy. Unfeeling. Unstoppable.  
  
Hawke struggled against them, cutting at hands and fingers. The daggers he had stolen were standard issue, not really the best choice to bring against dark arts like this. Maker preserve him. What had possessed him to think he could take down a blood mage single handedly with no ace up his sleeve? Arrogance? Desperation? He couldn’t even see the damn mage anymore, just the maelstrom of dark magic that the man had released. Finally he managed to tear himself loose, desperately rolling to the side to avoid the lumbering corpses, coming up face to face with the one remaining living guard.   
  
A guard that had a sword aimed at his chest, driving it home. Crap.  
  
And then… blood.  
  
Hawke blinked away the bloodstains, confused. No pain. The man in front of him blinked as well, a gurgling cough escaping his lips as he slid to the ground. Fenris pulled out the blade he had buried in the man’s back, giving Hawke an impatient look.  
  
"You are a fool. I suggest we run now." The elven warrior reached down, offering a hand.  
  
Hawke grasped it gratefully, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “You came back.”  
  
"I am apparently a fool as well."   
  
The corpses had collapsed around their feet as the magic had dissipated, leaving no trace of the blood mage. The open door at the end of the corridor spoke clearly of his route of escape though, and Hawke bared his teeth.  
  
"We can still catch him," Hawke said, still a bit wobbly on his feet from the spell.  
  
"No, we cannot," Fenris sighed, giving the rogue a tired look. "This will be your death."  
  
"Don’t argue, I…" Hawke begun, interrupted by Fenris fist impacting his chin.  
  
The elf packed quite a punch, he remembered thinking before his legs gave out and he collapsed into the shorter elf’s arms. And then everything turned black. Again.


	14. Chapter 14

Darkness. Soft sheets. The gentle sting of Ander’s magic. Consciousness slowly returning accompanied by arguing voices.

"I had not missed your unique and sparkling personality." Anders’ soft voice made hard by annoyance.

"I do not sparkle." Fenris gravelly rumble, tired and sullen in its defiance.

"No, not sparkle, what was it Isabela said… glistened?" 

Hawke could feel Anders’ hands pulling back from his forehead, but he didn’t open his eyes. Instead he lay there quietly and listened as the elf growled in annoyance at the mage’s needling.

"I am here because of Hawke."

"And now Hawke is here. And has me. So you can leave." 

The bed shifted slightly as Anders rose to his feet, but Hawke didn’t open his eyes just yet. He wanted to see how this would play out. Or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with reality just yet. Didn’t want to have to deal with decisions and worry and remembering. Or questions. Especially not questions.

"So you can deliver him back to your blood mage friends?" Fenris accusation was as sharp as a slap.

"Listen Fenris," Anders growled, sounding angrier than Hawke had heard him in a long time, but then the anger cracked into worried frustration. "Oh Maker, I can’t believe I’m actually trying to reason with you. I’m here because I am trying to stop being an abomination. You should be happy!"

"I find little reason to be happy about any mage, abomination or not." Trust Fenris to state the truth when a lie would be better.

"Fine, don’t be happy then. Just go."

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"No, I am not going to leave until I am sure he is not going to do anything stupid."

Hawke winced a little in his bed, suddenly hoping that Fenris hadn’t told Anders of what had happened to them. He didn’t think so; he’d like to think that the mage would be far more worried about him if that had been the case. Maker’s breath he didn’t want his lover to know.

"Stupid?" Anders sounded incredulous enough that Hawke became convinced that the mage was indeed unaware of what had happened. "This is Hawke we’re talking about, he’s usually the most level headed among the three of us.

"Usually," the elf reluctantly agreed. "These are special circumstances."

"Special enough that you won’t try to repeat what you failed to do at the gallows?"

There was a faint smell of smoke in the air, and Hawke chanced a peek, only to see Anders facing down Fenris, one hand covered in flickering flames while the elf’s tattoos had started to glow faintly. They looked ready to tear into each other, but to Hawke’s surprise, Fenris threw up his hands in the air and backed down.

"Believe me mage; I still think you deserve death. But I promised." 

"Oh that makes me feel so much better," Anders sighed, the flames fading.

"I am doing this for Hawke, not you." The statement was flat but passionate, and Hawke had to wonder what he had done to deserve that particular loyalty from the elf.

"So you keep saying," Anders sighed. "Maker, why doesn’t he wake up?"

"You are the healer. This is your area of expertise." Was that a hint of worry in Fenris voice? Or just reproach?

"He should be fine physically," Anders admitted. "There should be no reason why he hasn’t already woken up, unless…"

"Unless what?" Yes, it definitely was worry now.

"Unless he’s actually awake right now." Anders sounded half amused, half tired.

"Hawke?" Fenris asked, as if he didn’t quite dare believe the mage’s suggestion.

"What?" Hawke drawled, opening one eye to face reality. "It’s impossible to stay unconscious with the pair of you going at it." 

"You stupid, insensitive clod," the mage snapped, "I was actually worried about you!"

"You… brought me back to Anders?" Hawke caught Fenris gaze before the elf turned away, shrugging.

"You had need of a healer." It sounded so simple and logical when the elf said it, nothing at all like slugging him and then carrying him out of a slaver’s mansion.

"You certainly did, with that concussion" Anders agreed, almost shouldering Fenris to the side as he sat down at Hawke’s bedside. "Now, tell me what happened?"

Hawke wondered if he was the only one catching that particular little show of dominance. But a question had been asked, which meant the mage had no answers. “You don’t know?” he asked, giving Fenris a grateful look over his lover’s shoulder.

"Apart from telling me you saved his sorry ass, Serah Forthcoming here said that it was your story to tell." Anders ran a hand over Hawke’s cheek as Fenris turned away. "If you feel up to telling it."

"Not much to tell," Hawke shrugged, turning away from Anders’ hand. "I was recognized. Denarius might be dead, but his family is not. They nabbed me and tossed me in the dungeons. Guess who I met there. We broke out; I got knocked on the head, end of story."

"That’s not a story," Anders protested." Varric would be disappointed in you."

The dwarf probably would, Hawke thought to himself. Probably be disappointed in a lot of things. “I don’t feel much like joking,” he finally confessed, rubbing his head.

"Maker, did they hit you that hard on the head or is Fenris rubbing off on you?" Anders was joking, but there was a sharp undertone of worry there that clearly told Hawke he was not getting off the hook that easily.

"It’s not safe here," Fenris interjected, saving Hawke from that probing gaze. "You should leave as soon as possible."

"We’re not done yet," Anders protested. "My research…"

"Will have to wait," Fenris snapped. "Or better yet, we leave, you stay. That is unless you want us both back in the dungeons."

"I am a guest here," Anders argued hotly, any doubts he had shoved to the side to disagree with the elf. "I’m a blasted hero, they wouldn’t…"

"You are no hero," Fenris growled, pacing the room. "You are simply their latest distraction. Give it a week and they will have realized that you are nothing but a loudmouth southerner, not worthy of the time to try to tie as an ally to their house."

Hawke was about to interfere, but he caught sight of Anders’ face as it fell and held his tongue.

"I… think they might already have come to that conclusion," the mage admitted reluctantly.

"What are you talking about?" Hawke asked, glad for any distraction from his own plight.

"The party last night didn’t go very well." Anders pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, looking like he’d rather forget all about it.

"What do you mean?" Hawke shifted to a sitting position on the bed, making sure that the sheets were securely draped around him. He was naked under there. Had Anders stripped him? With Fenris in the room?

"Oh that’s not important now," Anders shrugged. 

"Actually I think it might be," Hawke said, resisting the urge to reach out and brush back a few of the blonde’s hairs that kept escaping.

"There was a bit of an argument," the mage admitted. "About slavery. There was a little incident and I sort of blew up."

"I always said you talked too much," the rogue sighed.

"No, I mean literally blew up." Anders looked like he would rather be facing down Fenris than Hawke right now, not that he had much of a choice The elf kept glowering at the pair of them. "I don’t think that room is ever going to be the same again. Not after the drapes caught fire."

"You blasted a fireball at something, didn’t you?" Hawke groaned and hid his face in his hand.

"Not something. Someone," the mage admitted sheepishly, eyebrows raised in a look of innocence. "Just a bit. He started it by slapping that poor servant girl."

"Not servant. Slave." For some reason Fenris thought it important to clarify that point.

"Yes," the mage readily agreed. "See, that’s what I mean. The argument just sort of escalated. He tried to get into my head!"

"Poor man, he had no idea what he was getting into," Hawke said, shaking his head.

"Not really, no," the mage admitted. "And it wouldn’t have been that bad if he hadn’t been that sloppy deflecting the fireball. I didn’t mean to set everything on fire!"

"Anders?" Hawke cautioned.

"Oh, alright, I admit it," the mage snapped, getting to his feet so he could pace. "I completely wanted to set everything on fire, but they deserved it." Anders had raised his voice now, and Hawke half expected the telltale lightning blue crackle of Justice. "I didn’t even want to go to their blasted party, you were missing and I knew something was wrong, but the bastards kept insisting, and they are worse than Mabari, Hawke, no offense. Show any weakness and they’d tear me apart like apprentices at dinnertime."

"Why are we still here and not hiding in the sewers or something?" Now that Hawke thought about it, he actually had no idea where here was. Not the inn, the room was far too clean and bright, and the bed too soft.

"Because we sort of got invited to stay at the tower of one of the Magisters," Anders admitted, scratching his neck. 

"After committing arson?" Hawke almost had to laugh, trust the mage to make new troubles to make him forget his own.

"She said it was the most fun she had at a party in decades." Anders sounded as if he was worried she might be asking for an encore. 

"And how come I am here?" Hawke looked at Fenris, who didn’t seem particularly inclined to explain.

"Because Fenris came dragging you along when I was packing up our things." Anders gave the elf a look of… well, grudging gratitude and respect.

"And why did you go along with that?" This time Hawke asked Fenris directly. 

"Because loathe as I am to admit it," and Fenris did sound as if he’d rather clean the sewers with his tongue than say those words, "Magister Cantilla is an ancient enemy of the House of Denarius."

"But you still want to punch your fist through her chest." Hawke didn’t even bother to phrase it as a question.

"Yes," came the curt reply.

"How does she feel about that?" He was becoming more and more curious of their mysterious host.

"Apparently she finds it amusing." The elf did not seem to agree on that assessment.

"He told her?" Hawke asked Anders, mainly for an ally in the ‘is Fenris insane?’ camp.

"Maker, it’s Fenris we’re talking about, of course he told her." Anders gave the elf a look of annoyed admiration. "He gave her the whole speech. I thought we were dead."

"So we’re safe then?" Hawked dared to ask.

"For now anyway," Anders sighed.

"No," Fenris said at the same time.

"Would you give us a moment?" Anders turned to glare at the elf, then added a more gentle "Please?" 

"Fine," the elf replied as if he had just been asked to trek five miles through a swamp. "I will be outside."

"And Fenris?" Anders hesitated when the elf turned and glared daggers at him, but he continued all the same. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you so much."

The elf didn’t reply, he just stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Hawke rather wished he could have left with the elf, because now there was nothing to distract Anders from his worries. Or his need for answers. Answers Hawke didn’t even know if he wanted to give him.

"He’s not so bad," Hawke said, looking at the shut door.

"Except when he is," Anders replied, paraphrasing Aveline.

"He saved my life," he said, rubbing his head. No bruises. Anders had healed any trace of what had happened.

"Guess that makes up for trying to kill you back then."

"To be fair, he was trying to kill you, not me," Hawke said sharply. "I only stabbed him because he was on the verge of loping your head off."

"I… didn’t know that," the mage admitted, sitting back down on the bed next to Hawke. "Want to talk about it?"

"I’m glad he’s alive."

"So am I, but that’s not what I was talking about."

"I suspected. Still worth a shot though."

"I healed you, you know. I saw the kinds of wounds you had."

"Bit of torture," Hawke shrugged, sounding disinterested. At least to his own ears. "Comes with the territory in Tevinter, like fermented fish sauce and blood magic."

"Don’t do this again," Anders cautioned. "Don’t shut me out like when your mother died. I know you too well love, I know that look in your eyes."

"Oh, do you now?"

"Yes I do. I’m no stranger to self-hatred. The only question is what it is this time."

"Maybe you should ask yourself what it was the last time?"

"I don’t need to ask that," Anders sighed. "I know. Your mother was killed, dismembered and reanimated by a blood mage while you had been spending years undermining Meredith’s control of mages. Wondering if your mother had been alive if you had agreed with what the Templars proposed. You don’t think I understood the looks you gave me? Wondering if I could do the same if I ever got hurt enough or crazy enough?"

"You are crazy," Hawke admitted with a sigh. "But I never feared that about you."

"Truly?" Anders reached out to put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. Then he frowned. "Wait a minute; you’re trying to distract me again."

"It was working too," Hawke admitted. "I don’t want to talk about what happened. It was bad. It is over. End of story."

"Is it, really? Because I don’t think it is."

Hawke paused, looking at the mage, trying to come to a decision. Anders was right; it wasn’t the end of this story. He couldn’t just walk away from this. But… Anders was the only reason he was here in the first place. Finding a way to separate spirit from man. He had to get his priorities straight, even if he hate every second of it.

"It is," he said, with more conviction this time. It had to be. For now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Anders' point of view.

If someone told me ten years ago, back when I was healing refugees in Darktown, that I would be sitting in a Tevinter tower getting drunk on honeyed wine I would have called them delusional. Honestly, if someone told me fifteen years ago that I would be a Gray Warden, a host to a sort of maybe demonic spirit of Justice and sleeping with a man that’s kept loving me through my stupid decisions and silly sense of humor, I would have laughed hard, and then bought them a drink. If I had been out of the tower at the time that is. Honestly when I put it like that, I wonder if maybe I never did get out of solitary confinement and just went quietly insane. Maybe I’m a gibbering madman in the basement of the Circle Tower, someone they scare the new apprentices with, and uses as a punishment for Templars who won’t toe the line. ‘You will learn to obey orders Ser Shinyarmor, now go in and give the madman his yearly sponge bath.’ I chuckle loudly at the thought, and looks up to see if Hawke noticed. 

He didn’t.

He’s scowling. Again. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it. I wonder if he knows that I notice. Probably not, because then he’d smile and make a joke and Maker I know how that works because I do it too. Maybe he thinks I don’t understand. Maybe he just doesn’t understand himself. Maybe it’s just a reflex, but I know it had to be pretty bad what happened to have him slip into that scowl. I hate that scowl.

We’re in the library of Cantilla, located near the top of the tower, windows circling the room to let the ample daylight in. Right now the afternoon sun is sinking hot and fast so the windows are covered by thin curtains, tinting the light a leaf-like green that Merrill would have approved of. Pretty curtains. Pretty flowers. Even ancient wrinkled Magisters had their girly sides it seemed. The shelves are filled with scrolls and books, but now there are gaping holes where volumes have been pulled out and precariously stacked on the central reading table. I’m busy making notes and drinking wine, fingertips stained blue with ink. Hawke is pacing, sometimes reading, sometimes staring out the window with a faraway look on his face. Silent. 

Scowling.

"Did you ever notice that these curtains are the exact shade of Varric’s undergarments," I muse out loud, wondering where in the Maker’s name I got that from. From the look Hawke’s giving me I bet he’s thinking the same thing, and so I rise from my chair to run my fingers across the silk, doing my best to appear thoughtful. Ooops. Inkstains. Hope nobody notices.

"And how would you know that? Should I be jealous?" Hawke smiles, and I’m secretly pleased because he smiles, and that means I’ve probably distracted him from whatever was on his mind. Score one for silly wits.

"Of that broad hairy chest? Those muscled arms? That killer smile? That rapier wit?" I purse my lips thoughtfully, and am rewarded by rough hands grabbing my shoulders, Hawke pressing his lips against mine a moment later. He’s been rough lately. Not that I mind. Sometimes rough is what we both need. There’s more honesty in our touch than in our words half the time.

His eyes catches mine, and I smile a little in unspoken acceptance, and suddenly his hands are inside my robe, exploring, needy. I tug at his pants, sliding back against the table, ignoring the books that tumble to the floor. We’re in the library and probably should be silent, but he doesn’t care and so I don’t either. Honestly, I don’t think Magister Cantilla would mind, she’d probably laugh and call us frisky. I hope. I’d make an ugly toad.

Maker, please don’t let her walk in on this. The servants at least know to stay well away and be discreet. Servants.   
Slaves.   
No, don’t think about that, think about…

"Oh Maker," yes, think about that instead, how does he even do that with his blasted clever rogue’s hands? He nearly makes my knees give out with a grope and a grin and he probably have no idea how deeply I have fallen for him. Beneath the jokes and the smiles and the fact that I talk too much.

The bite makes me wince and he pauses with a frown, and so I smile and urge him on because Maker he needs this. I need this. My robes are pushed up as I’m bent over the desk. Maker, don’t let Cantilla walk in, no, worse, don’t let Fenris walk in. Did I just get a little harder at thought? Maybe. Probably. Or it’s Hawke’s fingers.

"Just do it," I growl, or maybe beg, because I’m more kitten than dog and right now I’m putty in his hands. Clever hands. Strong hands. Calloused. Long fingers. Could open any lock he set his mind to, and I should know because I haven’t opened up like this in ages and…

…he thrusts in hard and saves me from that particularly pathetic and mushy strand of thought. No need to think now. Just cling. My arms slip and more books fall, and I’ve probably lost all my bookmarks now. Not that I care. I was out of wine anyway. I still keep thinking too much, but at least my head is quiet… the good kind of quiet. My mouth? Not so much. I think I’m moaning. Or maybe he is. Our breaths mashed together like our bodies.

Velanna asked me once why I talked so much, and I told her it was to keep the silence at bay. The truth. Not sure she believed me though, I was talking a mile a minute back then, truth and lies in a merry dance of jokes. Had a lot to catch up to after a year in solitary. The silence got to you after a while. Made things strange. Once you’d been alone for too long. Like the fade slipping into reality, voices whispering behind the corners until you could swear you heard things. Bad things.

But you can’t start talking to them. As a mage you’re not just crazy, you’re a candidate to be made Tranquil. Thank the Maker for the cat. You can talk to a cat and still be sane if something of an eccentric, but talk to a wall and people will stare. A year. In solitary. I’ve got no idea if Hawke can imagine how terrible that was. For me. Days without seeing somebody except that cat. Of course I had to run away again. The circle wasn’t big enough. The same old disapproving stares just built the walls higher around me. I had to get out. And that time I swore I would not go back alive. 

I didn’t have to. The Wardens took me, and it’s a kinder death with them than in the tower. I’d drink to Darkspawn taint over Templar poison any day. Even if it tasted terrible. Like Oghren’s breath.

Hawke grabs my hair and pushes my head against the table, and I’m wondering who he is fucking in his head. What’s going through his mind? I want to tell him that I understand, but he doesn’t need my understanding. He needs my ignorance. He needs me to look at him the same way that I did before. I have no idea what truly happened to him, and it doesn’t matter. See, it never really matters exactly what happens when you’re put in situations like that. It’s not the acts committed, it’s the helplessness that gets you.

And I know helplessness. I know enough of it to tease and struggle in his arms, playfully testing his strength. He’s in control right now. Not them. He’ll work it through, and maybe one day he’ll tell me, or maybe he won’t. Maker knows I never told him everything that happened to me. Didn’t matter then. Still don’t. I don’t want his sympathy, I don’t need his protection, I don’t want him to look at me and see what I have done. What has been done to me. I just want him to see me. Anders. And he did. From the start. Silly jokes and all, ignoring my attempts to warn him off. 

As if Hawke have ever listened to any warnings. He just barreled on, convinced that he knew exactly how this was going to end, as if love was as easy to handle as one of his throwing knives. Which is alright, I can return that favor and stop worrying. Only fair after all. He never asked me why I lost control and nearly killed that girl after almost watching the Templar have his way with her.

Self-hatred much?

So I won’t ask him why he’s rough enough that I’m going to smart later. I’ll just slide my own hand down to help myself, because Maker he can’t last much longer. I know I can’t. And don’t. Neither does he.

The collapse is sudden, and I find myself sandwiched between table and man. Not a bad position normally, but I’ve got bruises telling me I need to move.

"Hawke," I say, voice tired and teasing.

"Mmm?" he asks, a tired murmur against my ear, and I feel a jab of tenderness in my gut that I do my best to mask.

"If mentioning Varric gets this result every time, I’m the one that’s gonna start getting jealous."

That teases a laugh from him, and he pushes back to arrange his clothes once more. I remain sprawled for a moment before finding my feet.

"I always told you there was a reason for the robes," I joke, wincing a little as I try to straighten them.

"Was I too rough?" he asks a bit guiltily.

"You can kiss and make it all better later. Once you’ve helped me sort through all my books. Andraste’s flaming knickers you’ve made a mess of my research."

"I kept meaning to ask how that goes," he starts, and I smile and try to tie back my hair again. He comes to the rescue and does it for me.

"It can be done. Come next full moon we’ll see." I’m not half as sure as I let on, but I need to do this now. Hawke has no idea how much. Perhaps he should know. Someone should. "It has to happen soon," I admit.

"He’s waking up then," comes the question, and I haven’t the heart to tell Hawke that he’s never really been asleep. I’ve just been better at handling him. He doesn’t need to know.

"Justice is stirring," I agree, grimacing a little. I want to clean up, Hawke came inside me and right now I’m all too aware of it. But sad as it is, those little discomforts keeps me centered. "This place… Tevinter… It is anathema to him as much as the Templars. Every time I see a slave, I want to…."

"I know," Hawke sighs, scratching his neck. "Me too. Is he a big problem yet?"

"Not yet. If he was, we’d be dead because I’d have done something that couldn’t be undone. We’re very lucky that I have less of a hatred for slavers than Templars."

"You’ve never been a slave," he points out, trying to help my opinion of myself.

"It’s still not very flattering to think about. Maybe Fenris was right about me." There’s no maybe about it, there’s many emotions I have when it comes to that wild dog of an elf, but I’m not stupid enough to deny that he has a point now and then. 

"Maybe he’s right about both of us," Hawke interrupts my musings, making me wonder what he was thinking about.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" I ask, probably sounding either worried or angry, because he smiles and wave me off.

"Nothing. So, there’s been real progress then?"

"Yes," I admit, because it is the truth. "I think it’s really happening, Hawke. Cantilla has been a great help."

"Can’t help but wonder what she wants in return."

The suspicion is so thick I feel the need to assure him even though the same thoughts are on my mind as well.

"I know we’re supposed to think all Tevinter Magisters are kitten-molesting monsters, but… I think she’s bored, Hawke." I hunch down to start picking up some books, and maker that stings. "She has no children, no apprentices, no family. She can’t have that many years left, and… well, I am charming."

"That you are," he readily agrees, helping me pick the books back up. "Should I be jealous?"

"Maker no," I exclaim,"she could be my grandmother! If my grandmother was left out in the sun to dry like sliced apples for winter. I believe her wrinkles have wrinkles."

"You always said you fell in love with a whole person, not just their bodies." His voice has gone soft, and his hand brushes against mine.

"Luckily for you," I retort, trying to stop myself from growing all warm and mushy again and drag him off to the baths somewhere. I should be researching.

"Ouch," he gasps, holding a hand to his heart. "I am wounded!" Ever the comedian. The only man who could make me feel downright serious at times.

"Want me to kiss it better?" I ask wickedly, and to the abyss with researching right now.

"I think you might have to," comes the pleased reply.

…

I needed the bath anyway I keep telling myself. Trying to concentrate with hot cum threatening to leak out at any sudden movement is about as hard as it is to keep a straight face in front of a lecturing Templar. Possibly harder. Though nicer. And I like being clean. I love the soft beds, the spiced wine, the food, oh Maker the food. I must have been putting on some weight again; Hawke has stopped complaining that he might break me in two. I am perfectly comfortable not being starved. I know… we have to leave this soon. This is a respite, not a future. Just a stop on the road. But the road has been long and hard and it’s no crime to enjoy a scented bath now and again, right? Even if the girls pouring the hot water are slaves.

Slaves.

I wince and sink back against Hawke, running my fingers leisurely over his arm. Shut up Justice. It’s a balance and a battle, because Justice is still there, but sometimes it’s Vengeance. Neither of them leaves much room for Anders to just be Anders. If I let Justice have his will, I would be dead. That would be just. I killed people. Innocent people. I should pay. And Vengeance… he wants more. He needs more. That demon has not had his fill yet. He wants to strike back, to make the world burn and I need to bury this again. Bury it deep down beneath flesh and sweat and all the things that the spirit disapproves of. I’m running out of time, Tevinter is a crime in progress, and I can’t ignore it. I want to. I need to. Fenris hates me because I championed the mages but remained silent about the slaves, and he’s right. But I don’t want to die. I used to think it didn’t matter, but the longer I’m with Hawke the more unappealing martyrdom sounds. Maybe I’m getting the strength to fight back again. Some would say I’m growing weaker.

"I’m going to need your help," Hawke says, and at first I’m convinced it’s any of my inner voices that have spoken. But no, it’s him.

"I was wondering when you’d get around to asking," I drawl, because he’s obviously been working up his courage for some time now. Baths makes people talk. 

"Am I that transparent?" He asks, and I want to say yes, but I don’t. Diplomacy Anders.

"You’ve been distraught ever since…"

"Since?"

"You know."

"I do. But it’s not like I ask for help often," he says, almost sounding sullen.

"Oh no, of course you don’t," I say, turning around to face the rogue with an innocent look on my face. "Anders," I squeak in a fair approximation of Hawke’s drawl, holding one hand up, my fist making little mouth motions. "Please help; I need those Grey Warden maps." I see his lips twitch in a smile, and continue my conversation with my hand. "And Anders? Please come with me into the Deep Roads even though you hate them, I don’t want to bring my sister because that would be dangerous. And while you’re at it, please come with me into the Fade to help Feynriel even if you don’t really want to, and Anders, I really need you to talk Merrill out of this deal with a demon she’s planning, and…" I break off because I get a splash of water over me, leaving room for Hawke to interrupt.

"Maybe I just needed you all along. Maybe I still do."

"It’s not like I’ve ever been able to say no to you."

"Good," he nods. "I need you to make some Gaatlock for me."

"What… no, what? Are you insane? What are you going to, and wait, where did you get the idea I’d know anything about that anyway?" Luckily the bath can be blamed for my blush and my cold sweat both.

"I’m not stupid Anders, with the Templars and Carta cracking down on the Lyrium trade, there are a finite number of things you could have used to blow up the chantry."

"And you just feel like going and blowing something up," I sigh.

"Yes, I do," he replies, stone-faced.

"Do I dare to ask?"

"I think you can guess." Oh I can, I very much can, and the spirit inside me is rejoicing. 

"This is insane," I argue, but to no avail. I’ve argued before, but never won.

"I won’t do anything rash," he assures, as if I am supposed to believe that. Rash might as well be his second name. Or maybe Isabela’s second name if you count how many times I’ve had to treat her for it. "I will wait until you are finished with your business here."

"So it’s a reasonable insanity," I say and roll my eyes.

"Fenris would agree with me." 

"Maker, you’re using that as an argument for reason?"

"Will you do it?"

"Yes," I groan. Of course I will. As always. "Just promise me two things. One, be very, very careful. You’re going to have to collect the Sela Petrae yourself, the Drakestone and the rest we can buy."

"What do they use Drakestone for here?"

"Keeping abominations comfortable of all things. They like the smell when you burn it."

"Who in their right mind would want to keep an abomination comfortable?" Hawke asks in disbelief.

"Trust me, when using Rage demons to guard your cellar you want them comfortable. Not angrier."

"What is the second thing you wanted me to promise?" he asks, still unsure whether he should take me seriously or not. Another victory for the mage with the odd facts.

"If you’re doing this, come back to me in one piece," I say, and this time I am not joking.

"Anders," he says, and I’m melting a little at the tone in his voice. "I will always come back to you."

And this time, I actually believe him.


	16. Chapter 16

Hawke waded down the pitch-black tunnel, grimacing as the stench grew thick enough to cut. The echoes travelled weirdly down the bricked sewers, prompting him to hold up a hand and motion for Fenris to pause. Both the men froze and the echoes faded, leaving them in silent darkness.

"I think everybody has stopped following us by now," the rogue whispered hopefully.

"Do not chance a light just yet," the elf cautioned under his breath. "You’ve played the fool enough for one day."

"What’s important is that I came out ahead at the end of it," Hawke smiled, running a hand over the daggers bundled in his arms. Not that the day was over yet he supposed.

He had been sure he was dreaming when he spotted a guard haggling for his lost daggers at a pawnshop down the harbor. He and Fenris had been scouting for a good sewer entrance, and they could usually be found in places where the tunnels opened up to dump their less than pleasant cargo into the patient seas. It hadn’t been hard to move around unrecognized despite their recent troubles; both he and the elf had draped themselves in the bright blue turbans and veils of desert mercenaries, covering everything but their eyes from prying glance. The mercenaries fierce reputation did the rest, they could walk down the street with impunity, and nobody questioned their odd purchases. Fenris might have been a tad too short for one of the nomads, but he spoke fluent Tevinter and knew enough to make their charade believable. Hawke resigned himself to glaring and looking threatening, that is until he had spotted the familiar glint of Antivan steel.

Maybe it hadn’t been the world’s brightest idea to just grab the daggers and make a run for it, but he wasn’t about to let his weapons be sold off like slaves. He had been resigned to their loss, in his mind they had been safely locked up in the house of Denarius, but apparently he had underestimated the disdain mages held for weapons. The guard had probably stolen them when he was brought in, and nobody had cared overmuch. Just Hawke. The loss of the Antivan dagger had stung, the jagged blade was balanced like no other weapon he had, but the loss of the Bassrath-Kata had been a deeper hurt. Guard it or lose all honor. Maybe, just maybe he was getting some of it back right now. He had a feeling that the Qunari would only shrug at the fact that he’d been captured and tortured and… well, never mind what else. That was irrelevant. The loss of his blade was not. Bodies were bodies, this was honor wrought in steel. 

Maker’s breath, he was really buying into that whole Qun deal, wasn’t he? 

"Next time you feel the irrepressible urge to do something stupid, warn me first," Fenris said, a tired, resigned note to his dark voice. 

It had always surprised Hawke, the gravelly depth of the elf’s voice. The former slave was both shorter and thinner of the two men thanks to his elven heritage, but he had the voice and presence of an ogre. And the strength, he reminded himself, rubbing his chin.

"If I warned you, you would have tried to talk me out of it," he said amiably.

"I am not your mage," the last word was hissed with sudden vehemence. "I understand honor. But had I had been prepared, I would not have had to sever that guard’s head."

"Don’t tell me that you minded killing a slaver," Hawke smiled, noting that Fenris tattoos had started to glow under his clothes, visible through the fabric. 

"Oh I rejoiced at the opportunity," the elf growled with what amounted to happiness for him. "But now we are chased killers, not thieves. More will follow."

"I don’t hear anything, and there’s no light. I think they’ve given up." Hawke sounded happy enough at this, struggling to strap on the knife-harness in the dark.

"If they do not follow, that can only mean one thing."

"What?" Hawke asked, adjusting his leather armor when something caught his attention. "Oh no, never mind I asked that," he groaned.

In the darkness he had begun to hear sounds. Not sounds of boots and armored men. Skittering sounds. Wrong sounds. The guards hadn’t followed because they were afraid. Of what was down here.

"Prepare yourself," the elf hissed, and Hawke could hear the sound of steel being drawn.

"It’s pitch black," he protested. "How can you even make out what’s there?"

"Not all are blessed with as bad eyesight as you humans. If the dark bothers you, light a lantern."

Hawke muttered to himself, but quickly lit the small lantern they had brought with them on their expedition. He fought well in darkness, he loved shadows, but that was the darkness of moonless nights and dark alleys. Not the complete blackness of enclosed tunnels. Normally he’d never venture into a place like this without a mage to shed some light, but Anders was busy. And they had just planned to go collect some Sela Petrae. An easy task. Yeah, right.

The light exposed their less than savory surroundings, greenish walls covered in decades of slime, and a thick sluggish river of unmentionable human offal that they had been wading through. In Kirkwall the sewers had been a lot cleaner, a few times every season flashfloods rushed through them when the heavy rainclouds broke against the mountain, washing away the filth that had collected. Here things moved sluggishly, if at all, leaving Hawke to wonder what in the name of the Maker had really been growing down here. He couldn’t see anything yet, just shadows at the edge of the light, disturbing the sluggish water with their movements. Something caught his eyes and…

"Maker," he exclaimed in horror. "Fenris, are those your boots that are floating there?"

"Yes," the elf said tensely, keeping the tip of the greatsword hidden just underneath the surface. He kept peering into the darkness, face set in a scowl.

"Are you mad?" Hawke realized this was a stupid question to ask, but just the thought of what the elf had done made his own toes curl up in fear and disgust. "Are you walking barefoot in this… filth?"

"I am," the elf replied, "I don’t like boots. There is no more need for a disguise so I got rid of them."

"But Maker…" Hawke shook his head, his Antivan dagger in one hand, the lantern raised high in the other. "The things you are stepping in…"

"Are leaking into your boots as well," the elf replied gruffly. "I prefer the filth in the sewers to the filth on the street."

"Was that a joke?" Hawke found a ledge where the bricks had collapsed, placing the lantern on it so he could pull out a throwing knife. "If so, you need to work on them."

"Turn to your mage for jokes if you miss them so much," Fenris growled, readying his sword.

"It’s getting old you know, you harping on Anders. He’s done nothing but help you." Hawke sent the throwing knife flying into the shadows, and suddenly the water erupted in a horde of squirming tentacles.

"Help?" Fenris shouted over the din, rushing forward through the knee-high sludge, barreling into the body of the thing that had been stalking them. "He’s destroyed your life! He will be the death of you."

"Good for you then, since I annoy you so!" Hawke slashed at the tentacles, severing tips that fell into the water squirming like damaged eels. As far as he was concerned, Fenris could distract the thing until he found an opportunity to kill it. Wild flailing was not his thing.

"You infuriate me and annoy me," the elf agreed, swinging the large sword in an arch, letting the sheer weight of the blade cut through the gummy flesh. "But I do not wish you dead."

"Likewise," Hawke grunted, grabbing hold as one of the more massive tentacles pulled away, using it to propel him towards the center of the creature. "I can’t believe I almost…" he broke off as he plunged the dagger into what he hoped was an eye, grimacing a bit as he felt the bulbous growth erupting under his hand.

"That you almost what?" Fenris snapped, rushing forward, using his sword as a spear, shoving it deep inside the convulsing creature, then twisted it upwards.

"That I almost slept with you," Hawke admitted, "I…" he had no time to finish the sentence, a massive tentacle lashed out in pain and threw him against the wall, slamming his breath from his body.

"That you… Hawke!" Fenris’ growl turned into a shout, and he tugged desperately at his blade which was now stuck inside the creature.

"Worried?" The rogue gasped, but he had rougher landings in his days. Better too.

"Festis bei umo canavarum," the elf swore, tugging his sword free only to be drenched by black guts, or was that ink? "I am not worried, now shut up and kill this thing."

"What do you think I was doing?" Hawke said, recovering his breath as he considered his options. The eyes had not been eyes, just pustules of… something. Fenris swords had made huge gashes, but the skin was thick and rubbery, and the flesh beneath it seemed the same. He couldn’t even see a mouth or… oh Maker, he hated when he came up with plans like this. "Fenris?" he shouted, sprinting towards the tentacled beast.

"Are you about to do something stupid again, Hawke?" Fenris asked, but he readied his sword all the same.

"Maker yes, I am," Hawke assured with a wild laugh, letting himself be grabbed by what he had guessed would be the main tentacles. "Be ready for it."

"Be ready for what?" shouted the elf as the waters around them churned and Hawke was hoisted up against the tunnel roof, ribs creaking from the strain.

The rubbery body shifted beneath the surface as the beast rolled over, revealing a sharp, beak-like mouth ringed by smaller tentacles. Hawke tried to stop struggling against the tentacles’ hold, doing his best to impersonate a delicious non-dangerous morsel. Maker, that was a mouth he didn’t like the look of, the ring of chitinous plates that lined the beak looked able to snap him in half, armor and all, if the tentacles pulled him in.

"That!" Hawke shouted; voice a bit too shrill as the beak opened far too wide, pulling the rogue down towards it. "The mouth, kill it, please!"

He needn’t have begged, Fenris had already leapt forward, propelling himself against squirming tentacles to gain height enough to plunge the sword deep inside the creature’s mouth. He nearly had his hands removed when the beak snapped shut, but simply rolled to the side, focusing his rage into one glowing fist that he sent deep into the flailing beast, reaching for the sword inside. The results when he pulled it out were spectacular, and Hawke found himself tumbling to the ground in a rain of flailing tentacles as the creature shivered and died.

"It is dead," Fenris ascertained, poking the limp remains. "Now can we get on with our task?"

"That was brilliant," Hawke laughed, trying to clean black guts from himself. On second thought he decided that the creature didn’t smell worse than the sewers, so perhaps he’d better leave them be. Camouflage. "Remind me to never piss you off," he grinned, giving Fenris a clap on his shoulder.

The elf stiffened, then turned and smashed Hawke against the wall before the rogue could react. “You do nothing but piss me off,” he growled, his face inches from the other man’s. “I do not understand you. You make insane choices, you take nothing seriously, and you choose a mage for a mate and yet continue to taunt me with…”

"With what?" Hawke replied, well aware that Fenris had started glowing, the elf’s hands burrowing into his shoulders. He should probably stop smirking, but damn, it was a reflex.

"I thought you made your wishes clear to me back in Kirkwall," the elf growled. "And then you turned around and slept with Isabela."

Hawke didn’t have to fake his confusion. “That was what that was about? Maker’s breath, Isabela was… you can’t honestly have dumped me for that. Everybody sleeps with Isabela, I thought that was understood.”

"I. did. not. dump. you," Fenris growled, leaning closer, their noses brushing against one another. "We never had anything close enough for that."

"No, because you never let me in," Hawke snapped back, grabbing hold of Fenris shoulders. "You just kept sulking in that damn mansion of yours. So yeah, I got drunk celebrating and ended up with Isabela. Big deal, hot sex, never a repeat performance."

"It made things clear to me that whatever you wanted did not agree with me. I do not appreciate being toyed with." 

"I wasn’t toying," Hawke sighed, softening his grip a bit. "At the time."

"And now?" Fenris voice was surprisingly brittle.

"I…" Hawke found himself hesitating. "I love Anders." He didn’t mean for it to sound like an apology. But he supposed it was. 

He had never planned to fall in love with the apostate healer who was so severely against ever having to trust somebody that deeply again. Honestly he had thought the mage coy at first, with his dire warnings about breaking Hawke’s heart, but it was not as if his eyes had told a different story than his lips. It had started out as teasing, and then grown in intensity as he found himself wanting to get to know the troubled blonde better. Isabela had been a friendly one-time shag for curiosity’s sake. Fenris had been a fascinating possibility he never got a chance to explore, but Anders… he hadn’t expected love. But there it was.

"Then we have better get going." Fenris let go of Hawke, stepping back as he wiped black blood from his face. "Let us find what we need in this filth and be out of here."

"That sounds like the best idea yet," Hawke sighed, quieting his beating heart. There had been a moment there when he had been certain the elf would move to kiss him, and he hadn’t been able to guess what his own response might have been. 

Maker preserve him, this one was going into the deep dark bag of secrets he wouldn’t talk to anybody about.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops got he wrong order of chapters here, missed posting this one. Now it is fixed.

"Are you sure about this Anders?" Hawke asked, looking around the dark room. 

It smelled of magic, blood and Lyrium. If anything, it reminded him of the Deep Roads, of the deepest, strangest parts where Bartrand’s maps had taken them. Except that this was just a room, near the top floor of a tower belonging to a Tevinter Magister. Said Tevinter Magister was busy, lighting candles, acting more like an old grandmother whose favorite nephews had come to visit than a figure of her dreaded reputation. Cantilla was many things, but not a woman to be underestimated.

"No," the mage confessed, face pale in the candlelight. "But since when were we ever sure of anything?"

Hawke smirked a little, reaching out to caress the cheek of the nervous mage. “I was certain of you from the moment we met.”

"Liar," Anders said, but the smile had appeared all the same. "We had no choice. You wanted the maps; I needed help with Karl, and… well, it went downhill from there."

"Oh you two lovebirds," the old woman cackled as she swept past, resplendent in her black and red robes. She looked ancient enough to have one foot in the grave, but moved with the vitality of a teenager. Hawke suspected the vitality was stolen, like so many mages in Tevinter; the old woman was a practicing blood mage. But like Merrill, he hoped that this one was on their side.

"Is this safe?" Hawke asked her, stepping back a bit guiltily from Anders. The last weeks he had been throwing himself into supporting his lover the best he could. But now, when the hour was approaching he was gripped by a fear he couldn’t quite describe. Anders could die, but that was not what he dreaded most. What if he lived? What if he lived but was no longer the mage that he loved? It was a selfish fear, but Hawke admitted to having it.

"Is it safe, he asks," Cantilla laughed, reaching up to stroke a hand over the rogue’s chest. "Nothing here is safe; nothing in life is ever without risk."

"But it can succeed," Anders interjected. "That makes it a risk I am willing to take."

"Then prepare yourself," the old woman said with a look that could almost be constructed as fond. If the room was dark and the viewer of a favorable disposition. "The moon is rising."

"Yes, ma’am, one naked mage coming right up," the apostate joked with a nervous smile.

Hawke swallowed any other comments he had, watching as Anders turned his back on them and walked over to the circle emblazoned in the center of the floor. There were a million and one things he wanted to say to the man, but he hoped that the mage knew them all already. They couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. 

Everything else was finished. Prepared. Done. They had made the Gaatlock according to Anders’ instructions, packed tightly in small barrels. The mage claimed that he had improved on the original recipe, the Qunari eschewed magic, but fuse their science to magic and you had the most potent of combinations. If a rather volatile one. Fenris had scowled like his face had been caught in a bear trap, but he had agreed to prowl the sewers once more with Hawke to place the explosives below the house of Denarius. This time they had been careful, and their task had been carried out without incident. Neither of them had talked about the almost kiss, and Hawke just gratefully accepted that the elf had agreed to help. In return, Hawke had promised to leave Tevinter when this was done, even if he had to leave Anders behind. Not that Hawke was going to do that, the mage was coming with them if he so had to knock him over the head and carry him out. This place was not healthy for the apostate; it was far too easy to get used to how things were done here.

The rogue hadn’t brought the issue up, but he wasn’t blind. Anders liked the nicer things in life, loved lounging in bed in the mornings, and relished the foods and wines. It just reminded Hawke how desperate the mage had been to move in with him, and escape the flea-ridden cot of the clinic. He knew that the mage was just as willing to give up everything he owned for the sake of helping people that had nothing, but when the option for luxury had presented itself, he had readily taken to the high life. Not that either of them hadn’t needed to recuperate, but… what would happen when Justice was out of him? When he didn’t need to suppress the spirit’s rage at how the slaves here were treated? How much of what he had fallen in love with was Justice’s steely determination and how much was Anders himself? He had no idea. He only knew that this place made his skin itch, and he wanted it torn down more than ever the gallows. He could understand Fenris’ views on the mages a little bit better now. He could understand why the Qunari had left him the wand.

"I don’t trust you," Hawke hissed to the old woman once Anders was beyond earshot, stripping his robes.

"You don’t need to, he does," she answered, watching the show with an amused smile on her thin lips.

She had walked in on them when he and Fenris were washing off the stench of sewers and blood, complaining about the smell. Taking her sweet time to ogle them. Hawke suspected that if she hadn’t been interested in helping Anders, neither of them would have been given a choice whether to share her bed or not.

"I don’t understand what you hope to gain from this," he asked in frustration. "Apart from watching him undress that is."

"Oh I have seen that already, do you truly think your couplings have gone unnoticed? Quite vigorous the two of you, makes me feel young again." 

Hawke felt himself blushing quite fiercely, glad for the dim light. “You want something.”

"Of course I do," she agreed, tilting her head as Anders slid out of his breeches, tsking appreciatively at the pale form of the mage.

"You have influence enough here, we have no skills that are of any particular use to you, and I refuse to believe you are doing it just to upset some of your fellow Magisters. That means that there is only one thing that you can want." Hawke fingered the throwing knives in his belt.

"How adorable, are you trying to second guess me? And here I thought you were just a pretty face." She cooed appreciatively, patting his cheek. Her fingers felt like steel claws, cold, rough and just as unyielding.

"You’re confusing me with the elf," Hawke joked with a stony face. "It’s Justice. You want the spirit."

"Didn’t you hear what I told your lover? The spirit will be let back into the Fade, free to resume its true function and heal the taint of Vengeance." Cantilla’s smile was positively beatific.

"I heard that, and I think you are lying." Hawke was neither fooled nor impressed.

"That I am. Are you going to tell him?" The question was light, ancient fingers wrapping around her staff.

"What do you plan to do with it?" he sighed.

"Trap it and study it. It is a fine example of a spirit slowly being corrupted into a demon; it could shave decades of my studies." Her eagerness was palpable.

Anders had finished stripping every single item of clothing, amulet or jewelry from his body, shivering a little where he stood. Even his hair band had been removed, the blonde hair falling forward, nearly covering his face. He looked nervously over at Hawke and Cantilla, giving them both a small wave. 

"I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be," he said, stepping into the center of the circle at the same time as he futilely tried to keep himself modest. His face and arms had tanned, but the rest of his body was so pale it almost seemed translucent in the candle light.

Cantilla cast a questioning look at Hawke, who shook his head and sighed. “Do what you have to do, but if he dies, you die.”

"Oh if he dies, we all die," the old woman assured, patting his arm. 

"That’s reassuring," Hawke muttered and stepped back outside the warded area. 

He could understand Fenris not wanting to take any part in this, but Hawke felt he had to be there. The Keeper had once said that familiar faces and people helped when it came to things like this. And Cantilla had not argued differently. She had told him that since he was not a mage he would not be more consequential than a piece of furniture as long as he didn’t step into the circle. He suspected the old woman didn’t care one whit whether or not Anders survived the process. What she wanted was the spirit, not the mage. As far as Hawke as concerned she could have that, as long as Anders came out of this in one piece.

…

At first, there was no change in the atmosphere of the room. Hawke had taken up a position along one wall, watching the two mages intently. Anders sat cross legged and naked in the center of the circle, the old woman kept circling him, touching her staff to symbols engraved in the floor at regular intervals. The process was slow and mostly quiet, and he started to feel the urge to fall asleep. 

And then the pressure started changing.

His ears popped, painful little jabs of lightning erupting all over his skin. The Lyrium circle set in the floor was glowing now, awakening pale highlights on the flesh of the two mages. The old woman had stopped moving, head bent, staff in both hands. There was a throbbing in the air that nearly sent Hawke scrambling for the door until he realized it was his own heart. Or was it? There were whispers in the corners of the room now, things half unseen skittering for the shadows when he turned his head. The woman looked older. The shadows longer.

All the candles had stopped flickering.

"COme…" unheard words teased, making Hawke wish he could turn his head. He couldn’t.

"be ONe wiTH us…" The voices rose and fell in a slow drone, like flies crawling over a corpse. He couldn’t move. Had he stopped breathing? It felt like a waking nightmare, trapped in his immobile body, trying to scream.

"daNCE for us, WE Are so LOnely." Hawke could see them now, faintly outlined children tugging at his arms. They could touch him, but he couldn’t move. 

What are you? He wanted to ask them. What do you want? 

"JUSTice," they crooned, skittering over to hover around the immobile mages. "so SHOrt. Our LIVEs." 

The atmosphere thickened, and Hawke could now see them making traces in the air as they prowled, like wolves in the mist.

"she/THEY ate us," the voices hissed, faces fading, jaws gaping. "ATEateATEate," they growled, fading in and out in front of Hawke’s face. 

"JusTICE…"

"so shorT…"

"GiVE us…"

They were reaching into him, each little hand clawing at his essence, each little jaw gnawing on his limbs. Trying to reach him. Tearing him apart. The unprotected. The one that could still see them. Feel them. The one that should have been inconsequential but was not. Eyes that had seen the fade. Not a mage. But changed.

And then Hawke’s hand twitched. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t. It moved jerkily like a beheaded spider, legs twitching. 

He stood up. Stiffly. Every muscle working on their own. There were hands inside him, whispers in his ears, little mouths chewing on his marrow. He was a puppet made of flesh, a glove somebody had stuck their hand into, and Maker preserve him he was reaching for his dagger. Numb fingers curled around the familiar hilt while he kept trying to talk to the spirits. Why? He tried to ask them, and: What are you?

Pale spirit arms reached for the unseeing blood mage. Her consciousness was focused elsewhere, in the fade. But the fade had come here to play as well, had found an outlet unprotected by circles or wards.

"MoTHer…" the voices whispered. "AUnt… SISTer… GrANdMother…" 

It was as if all the dead in the Tower of Cantilla had been given voice. All the dead. All that had passed. The emptiness of the tower was not because it had never been filled; it had been, once upon a time. Children. Siblings. Grandchildren. But now the only occupants were regrets and the voices of the dead. And they all wanted the same thing.

Justice.

The circle had started to glow, or was it Anders? No, while the mage’s skin crackled with the telltale blue lightning it was leaving him, turning into a swirling cloud that hovered at the edges of the circle. Hawke wanted to stop, to scream a warning, but instead he took another step forward. Then another.

Nobody noticed.

The blue swirl was stronger now, vaguely shaped like an armored man, still connected to Anders by umbilical tendrils of force. But, one by one, jagged red arcs crept forwards from the glyphs that surrounded the circle, cutting the tendrils one by one. Separating spirit from man. Trapping the spirit. The net tightened, and Hawke could see a how the Magister’s staff begun to glow. Crystals were set in irregular intervals around the wooden haft, each of them changing color from red to blue as the drain increased. She was really doing it, trapping a spirit of Justice in her staff, his knowledge and powers at her beck and call.

This was not Just. But it was necessary. Hawke tried to tell himself that, tried to fight the compulsion that made him take another step, placing him right behind the unseeing woman. He had never cared about justice, just about family, about keeping the people he loved safe. 

"Who kept us SAfE?" came the whispers, small hands placed before his eyes, sharing glimpses he would rather unsee. All the sacrifices that Cantilla had made for her long life, longer than Hawke had ever imagined. All the blood she had shed. Slaves. Prisoners. Her own family. Her own children. And in the meantime people kept closing their doors, imagining that if they saw no evil, it ceased to exist. 

There was a crackling sound, like lightning at a distance, and Anders slumped into a pile in the center of the circle. There was no tether for the spirit now; the mage was free so it was being drained into the staff at an alarming rate. Hawke kept fighting, but the look on the spirit’s face chilled him to the bone. Justice. He had seen that look on Ander’s face enough times for it to rattle him deeply. 

"JUstiCE…" Hawke wasn’t sure if it was the children that had spoken or he. 

He had never wanted to be involved. He had just wanted a life, a happy family, some good times, a bit of love. He had never cared about the bigger issues, they had just kept interfering, he had only half listened the times Anders started rambling about his manifesto. He had agreed that the circle was wrong because that was what his father had always said, and because he didn’t want his sister locked up. But he had never thought very deeply about it. Had he not loved so many mages he suspected that he’d been like Varric and just washed his hands of this whole mess. He still wasn’t sure the dwarf had forgiven him for dragging him along.

He certainly wouldn’t have considered blowing up the chantry and everybody that was in it. Until now. 

It was so easy to close ones eyes, wasn’t it? So easy to just back away, to pretend nothing was wrong. So easy to ignore the casualties you couldn’t see, the victims that were not of your hand but of your ignorance. He kept wanting to save people, but they kept dying anyway. Because nothing changed. And now it could. Maybe. If people did not fear the consequences of their actions and fell back to ancient prejudices. Hawke realized, with a chill down his spine, that all his dreams of living happily ever after on a deserted island were just that; dreams. That was just him being selfish, telling the rest of the world be miserable if it wanted to, he wouldn’t care. Except he did. Deep down. Maybe it wasn’t just love that had made him forgive Anders. Maybe, just maybe, deep down he had actually agreed with the mage. It was an ugly thing to face.

Ghostly hands jerked at him, and Hawke finally stopped resisting.

The Bassrath-Kata went in smoothly in the old woman’s unprotected back. Hawke could feel it digging up beneath her ribs, lacerating lungs before burying itself in her heart. The twist when he pulled it out was not the spirits’ doing. It was all his.

"Motherless whelp…" Cantilla coughed, blood streaming from her mouth. Broken eyes. Dying eyes. The eyes of a woman that had lived too long already.

"This is Just," the hollow voice of Justice intoned, growing in solidity, searching for a foothold. It was not finished with this world yet.

Hawke realized that it was looking at him. Straight at him, and that he still couldn’t move. Acceptance. Acceptance was needed. The spirit wanted this, wanted him, wanted hands and a blade and in return it offered a surety that Hawke knew he had never felt before. To be free of doubts. To know that what he was doing was just and right, even if it looked horrible to everybody else. Freedom from doubts. Freedom from choice. All he had to do was to say yes.

"I…" Hawke begun, the ghosts slowly releasing their hold as they swarmed around the dying Magister. "I a…"

"No," Cantilla growled, words bubbly with escaping blood. Blood that wrapped around her, holding her upright, a puppet of her own magic. "You will NOT be the end of me."

Vicious red energy spiraled out, wrapping itself around Hawke, trapping the rogue in a cocoon of pain. He knew he was screaming. He could feel the old woman draining him of everything he was, and Maker, she was killing him. She had a strength like no other mage he had felt before, and this time there was nothing to save him.

But the pain stopped. The pain stopped and he fell to his knees, gasping but alive.

Justice. The spirit had stepped between rogue and mage, and Cantilla had turned her rage on him instead. There was a battle of blue and red, as the Blood Mage tried to drain the spirit of his energy, while the spirit tried to… tried to do what? Hawke saw the blue sinking into the old woman’s flesh, her eyes flashing, blue and red and… Maker preserve him, the spirit was trying to possess the blood mage. This wouldn’t end well.

He forced himself to his feet, limping over to Anders where he lay slumped. Winds had started buffeting the room, but the candles still wouldn’t move. He had no idea why that disturbed him so much. He grabbed the naked mage and threw him over one shoulder, grabbing his belongings with the other. Now where was the door? Mage and spirit were still locked in a deadly embrace, vying for dominance, stray bolts lashing out, scarring the walls. One missed Hawke and Anders by inches, and the corrosive energy still left a burn across his cheek. He fled for the door, one stumble at a time, nearly collapsing in relief as it was yanked open and he could collapse in Fenris arms.

"Get us out," Hawke gasped, pushing the unconscious Anders on the elf, ignoring the disgusted glare he got in return.

"I gathered as much from your screams," Fenris muttered, adjusting Anders over his shoulder, seemingly untroubled by the weight. His Lyrium tattoos flashed wildly, reacting to what went on inside the room. "The blood mage?" 

"Dying. Possibly exploding. Talk later, run now," Hawke gasped, stumbling down the stairs.

They had just managed to reach the bottom of the tower when the explosion tore the top floors apart in a ball of red and blue, shattering debris over the surrounding area. 

And then, slowly as in a dream, the whole structure collapsed around their ears.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I originally missed posting the chapter before this one, hence the repost.

Maker, have mercy on their souls. 

That was the last coherent thought Hawke had as the stones started tumbling, and he threw himself on Fenris and Anders to get them out of the way of the collapsing wall. Not that it helped, not with an entire tower losing its structural integrity and collapsing around them in a shower of stone and dust. He coughed, hard, couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t feel anything but soft flesh and hard stone and damn that dust, he couldn’t stop coughing.

He wasn’t alone in that. More voices. More coughs. Movement.

"Whoever has their elbow in my groin, please consider moving it." Anders’ voice, very much alive though filled with pain. 

There was a shuffle as Fenris shifted; elbowing Hawke in the chest, and Maker but the elf had sharp elbows. Hawke blinked away the dust that stung his eyes, and forced them open.

They were alive, pressed together in a cramped circular area, curiously free of debris. Hawke praised their luck until he realized that it had very little to do with luck, and very much to do with Anders. Above their heads, the rubble rested on an opaque shield of blue, leaving them about a few feet of clear space to squirm in. They were buried alive.

He decided to focus on the ‘alive’ part for now.

"How long can you hold it?" Hawke asked, even though he’d much rather hug the mage and babble incoherently for a while because they were not crushed, and Anders was alive and no less sane than he had been a few hours ago.

"Not long," the mage admitted, the strain visible in his voice. "The walls, or well, rubble really, are sort of braced against one another, so I’m just keeping it from shifting… just have no idea what will happen when I let go."

"Our luck? Crush us just enough for a slow death." Hawke shifted slightly, so he could look the blonde apostate in the face. Whiskey colored eyes stared out of a face incredibly dirty and covered with dust, but there was a smile there. An infectious one.

"We were lucky I woke up in time, and why was I all naked and slung over Fenris shoulder?" The question seemed to be relevant, even in their current situation.

"Do you want the proper answer, or the Isabela answer?" Hawke replied.

"Tease, can’t I have both?" Anders eyebrows shot up in a look of mock-concern.

"If you two are quite finished," Fenris growled, sliding away from the pair. "I would prefer to get out of this before the mage," as always spoken with the utmost loathing, "tires."

"Tires?" Anders joked. "Not fouls things up? Or decides to crush you just for fun? Maker, you are warming up to me, that was downright flattery."

"There is a crack in the ground over here," the elf continued unperturbed. "There are cellars underneath the tower. I believe we can squeeze through."

"Lucky we don’t have Aveline with us," Hawke groaned. "She’d never fit."

"If we had Aveline with us, she could probably dig ourselves out single handedly." Anders sounded wistful.

"Suit yourselves," Fenris said, with something that might have been an exasperated sigh. Then he started inching through the rubble towards the crack that had opened up at the edge of the shield.

It was a tight fit. The elf had slid through with little effort, but Hawke had to strip off his armor and weapons before he could press his shoulders through the jagged edges. The fall wasn’t long, and he was grateful for the fact that gravity helped him along. Still, it felt like he had been born again. That was doubly true for Anders, who was still buck naked. Those few moments before the mage could begin his descent were the longest ones of the day. They were so close now, so close to actually getting out of this alive and in one piece that he just kept expecting something worse to happen. For Anders’ shield to fail. For the mage to become trapped, crushed, killed. And then the apostate fell into his arms, the ruins above collapsing completely a moment later, leaving them safely entombed in the dark. Safe.

He could have remained standing there for hours really, just hugging Anders tightly. Just feeling him shiver. He had recognized the manic tone in the mage’s voice earlier, and he knew the jokes were there to cover for it. 

"How do you feel?" Hawke finally asked once his voice felt steady enough.

"Like I can’t answer that yet," came the whispered reply, honest in its rawness. "Empty. I think he’s gone. I think he’s really gone. What happened?"

"The ritual worked," Hawke started, debating truth or lies. He settled for later. "But things went out of hand. We can talk about that later, we were just lucky you woke up in time."

"Not luck," Anders said with utmost seriousness. "Fenris. His damn armor kept poking me in the side."

"He is pointy, even for an elf," Hawke agreed.

"He can also hear you perfectly fine," Fenris growled from the darkness, making the pair jump.

"And see well in the dark," Hawke admitted. "Better get some clothes on you." He reached for the dropped bundle of Anders belongings, handing them to the mage.

"Yes, please," both elf and mage growled in unison, then broke off to glare at each other in the darkness.

Hawke turned around, attempting to keep a straight face as he strapped his armor back on. It was the relief making him giddy, he kept telling himself. Not nervousness.

…

They had been lucky. The cellars had indeed connected to tunnels drier and better smelling than the sewers. Perhaps they were used tor the transportation of slaves, or secret prisoners or just as an emergency escape in times like this. Hawke didn’t care. All that mattered was that they could make their way to a concealed hatch and climb out into an alley, finally seeing the sky again.

The streets were in an uproar, people running this way and that, pointing to the place where, only recently, one of the tall Magister towers had been standing. Everybody was covered with a thin film of dust, so their dirty countenances didn’t really stick out in the curious crowd. Nobody cared about anything but trying to figure out what had happened. Was it a Qunari attack? A fight between rival Magisters? An experiment gone wrong? If Hawke should chance a guess, this was the most exciting thing that had happened in this town for quite a while, and people loved to speculate.

None of them spared a thought for the people that had perished. Hawke realized he hadn’t either. There must have been at least two dozen slaves there, now probably as dead as they would have been if Anders had not woken up soon enough to shield them. Two dozen dead because he wanted to help his lover. Two dozen dead because he stabbed Cantilla in the back. And how many would be saved by this? By her death? She wouldn’t kill anybody ever again. By Anders staying alive? The apostate on the other hand just might. Hawke promised himself that he’d make it worth it in the end. That he’d make those deaths matter. Make their lives matter. Otherwise he was no better than Cantilla, dooming others to misery just to save themselves.

"Hawke?" Fenris asked as they cut through a near empty street, away from the crowds "What now?

What now indeed? Hawke realized how much he hated that question. In Kirkwall he had heard it spoken far too many times. People had relied on his judgment, and Maker, it hadn’t always been the best. But still his friends had remained with him. Whether that made him a leader or them idiots he hadn’t decided yet.

"We have the supplies still stashed in the sewers, we need to get to those and get on the road. It’s a long walk to the Arlathan forest, but it’s our best route of escape." They had decided that the sea was too risky; on foot at least they had more options.

"That was not all that I was talking about," the elf replied gravelly. 

The explosives. Hawke sighed. His desire for revenge suddenly seemed both childish and wasteful. There had been enough death for one day, hadn’t it? He cast a glance at Anders, the mage was dressed now, and leaning heavily on his staff. Hawke was glad that he had taken the time to bring it along. Without it, his lover looked ready to collapse, the events of the last hour catching up with him. He should prioritize. Their safety before revenge.

"Oh no you don’t," Fenris growled before he had a chance to open his mouth, stepping up to glare into the rogue’s face. "You do not get to back down. Not now. Not in this. The house of Denarius falls, or…" the rest of the threat was cut off as the elf turned away in disgust.

"We do it," Hawke found himself saying, reaching out to place a hand on Fenris shoulder. "We’ve already blown up one building; let’s leave this town with a bang." He had not realized the elf felt so strongly about it, but in retrospect he shouldn’t be surprised. For all that he had suffered for a few days, that had been Fenris life.

The elf didn’t shrug away immediately, his shoulders sagging a little in what might have been relief. Hawke pulled back his hand, running it over his short hair with a sigh. Right. Let’s get on with it.

"Are you well enough to fight?" Hawke asked Anders, getting his business face back on. "Because if you aren’t, we can wait a few hours. The risk won’t be that much greater then. And," he added after a moment’s hesitation. "Be honest. We don’t need to get ourselves killed for false pride."

"Oh no worries about my pride," Anders smiled, adjusting the amulet around his throat. "I like staying alive a bit too much to play dumb and proud. I… can heal. Comes easier than fire. You and Fenris should be able to handle most things, right? Just keep any damn archers off me."

"I can do that," Hawke nodded, giving Fenris a look.

"I’ve fought beside you for years, I will not stop now." The elf shrugged, and then gave Anders a nod of acknowledgement. "Both of you."

"I think security has probably been tightened since the blast, so let’s be careful." Hawke couldn’t stop the smile on his face. He had to admit it, he had missed heading into danger with his friends at his back. Even if said friends were casting each other daggered glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. Oh well, as long as the shouting matches didn’t start again he’d call it a win.

….

The tunnels underneath the house of Denarius were drier than the sewers, and less filled with rats than with guards. It seemed that the mages had been roused, frightened by an act of violence they could not understand. But, guards meant little against the three of them, and after the third group they settled into their old pattern. Hawke first and unseen, signing back to Fenris. The moment the elf charged, he fell upon the guards from behind, and fed by Anders’ vitality the slavers didn’t last long enough to scream. All that was missing was Aveline. Their dance had become routine by the time they reached the powder.

The powder that was still there. 

Hawke suppressed a sigh of relief, he had half expected it to be found and destroyed, but none had thought to look for something like this. Unexpected. Deadly.

"How do we set it off?" Hawke asked, giving Anders a look.

The mage was tired, but had been holding his own anyway with staff and spell. “The prepared cord. The one filled with Gaatlock. Roll it out and light it on fire. Then we run.”

"How fast does it burn?" Fenris asked, doing as Anders had instructed. 

"Not very. I had about that length of cord, and I made it to the square before the thing exploded."

All three of them paused a moment, lost in the memory of that fateful minute. Fenris recovered first, resolutely cutting the cord in half.

"What?" Anders exclaimed, looking as if he believed the elf had gone mad.

"We do not need to run that far. I do not want to risk it being found." The elf growled the last words, though his anger was directed at the building above, and not the mage. For once.

"Fine then, see if I save you if the tunnel collapses around our ears." Anders sounded petulant even to his own ears, so he shook his head and added. "It should be alright. As long as we’re fast."

"I could always throw you over my shoulder if you slow us down," Fenris said.

Both Hawke and Anders paused, looking at each other, then the elf. Hawke broke into a grin first.

"Maker be praised, you are getting a sense of humor," he laughed. 

"Finally," Anders agreed.

"It was not a joke," Fenris muttered to himself as he lit the fuse.

The three men spared each other a glance, then they ran for their lives.

…

Time slows down when you run for your life, Hawke had noticed. He’d been on many a reckless charge in his days, escaping the blight through hordes of darkspawn, trying to get to the Viscount’s palace fighting Qunari every step of the way. Escaping to the Gallows through Templars and demons. Suddenly, safety mattered less, time mattered more. Running into a patrol of guards couldn’t be allowed to slow them down, so he simply dropped and slid, hamstringing the first man he passed, burying both his daggers in the stomach of the second as Fenris lopped off a head that landed next to him looking confused. They hardly slowed down; steel supported by magic left vey little standing in their wake.

"We need to go up," Anders cautioned, the only one of them unmarked by the blood they had spilled.

"We’re too close to the house to be safe," Hawke said, trying to judge the distance they had run. It was hard to do underground.

"No, really," Anders snapped, the shine of his staff flaring up so they could see the roof clearly. "The tunnels will focus the blast, if we’re still here when it blows it’ll be like we had been loaded in a Qunari cannon."

"Light off then mage," Fenris growled. "Let me see the dark."

Anders obeyed, holding back any comments he might have felt like adding. As darkness fell, a faint light became visible in the distance, filtering in from above.

"There," Hawke exclaimed, rather unnecessary. "Run!"

As if either of them had planned doing anything else.

…

They had just reached the surface as the explosion happened. Perhaps the powder had burned faster, perhaps the blast had been larger than they had planned for, because they were still close enough that they instinctively threw themselves to the ground as dust and pulverized bricks rained down upon them. Hawke cursed loudly, nearly buried twice in one day was twice too often, but Maker, the place was nothing but a smoking crater now. It had to be. The cellars would be gone, that damn room, the slavers in it, that blood mage and everything else. Gone. He looked up, meeting Fenris’ gaze and for a moment saw a similar relief echoed there. There might be guilt later, maybe anger or regret, but right now this was the sweetest feeling in the world. Closure.

"Hessarian’s beard!" a tortured voice exclaimed. "That’s… my house?"

Hawke struggled to his feet, watching in disbelief as he saw the all too familiar blood mage stare in the direction of the ruined buildings. Maybe he had been out on an errand. Maybe he had just done what so many other people had done, gone outside to see what the ruckus was all about when Cantilla’s tower collapsed. No matter the reason, he was there, surrounded by guards, and before Hawke had time to think he had pulled a throwing knife and sent it flying. This time it hit home, causing the mage to scream in pain, spinning around.

Hawke sketched a small salute, rolling to his feet, as the mage realized who it was before him.

"You!" the blood mage howled, jumping to conclusions. "They did this! Kill them, kill them all!" 

As the street erupted in chaos, Hawke realized that it had probably been better ways to go about this. Quite a number of them. But now their choice was made for them.

He sidestepped the first guard, dropping into a half roll as someone stabbed a spear in his direction, trying to close the distance to the mage. He’d have to trust Fenris and Anders to make do on their own, he wasn’t letting things slide. Not this time. Not again. He had the bastard on the run and bleeding. Another throwing dagger and someone tumbled backwards clawing at their face as he stabbed hard with the Antivan blade, jagged edges cutting soft standard-issue leather armor. Guards. Slavers. Shopkeepers. A lot of people were interested in exacting vengeance upon them, or currying favor from a Magister. Even a would-be Magister. Maybe some were innocent, maybe some were better people who had just got their friends blown up, but right now Hawke didn’t care.

All that mattered was that he pushed forward through the crowd, that he could throw another knife even if it bounced off the shimmering blue shield. He’d left his friends behind now, because he wouldn’t let the bastard have a chance to get away again. Even if he had to fight him alone.

Alone.

Maker’s breath there were a lot of them. Barely dodging a sword that scoured his armor, Hawke elbowed someone in the face, suddenly catching sight of his prey again. Prey with hands glowing darkly red with his own lifeblood, preparing to unleash a blast right at him and everybody else. 

Oh crap. Too tangled in the crowd to dodge. Hawke braced for the inevitable impact.

"Oh look at you," a mocking female voice interrupted. "Just because you’ve got glowing hands doesn’t make you half the man the glowy elf was. No wonder you Magisters were so desperate to get him back. Do you miss having his sweet elven cock up your arse?"

The blood mage sent the blast at the affronting woman; frying a few bystanders as she dodged. “Whore!” he shouted, face red with rage.

"Slattern actually," Isabela laughed, vaulting over the back of one of the guards, blowing the furious mage a kiss. "And you don’t get to call me that, baldie."

Red energy swirled into a corrosive vortex of doom, readying itself to burst into a storm aimed in Isabela’s direction. She mouthed a silent ‘sucker’, then dropped and rolled as Hawke buried his dagger in the spine of the blood mage, releasing his energies in a shockwave that dropped most the crowd to the ground. Hawke would have fallen too, but Anders kept him on his feet with a green surge of support.

"Isabela!" the mage shouted, sweeping out with one arm, green glyphs binding the people that could still move. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving Hawke’s ass apparently," she laughed. "Oh, and yours too, since he seems to fancy you for some reason. The poor idiot."

"You do have a ship?" Fenris growled as he stomped his way over to the trio, drenched in slaver blood. "If so I suggest we run."

"Fenris!" Isabela squealed, throwing herself around the neck of the elf with such impressive speed that even the former slave was staggered by the impact. "I didn’t think I’d ever see your broody frown again! I’ve never been so happy that Hawke has such bad aim with those daggers of his." She proceeded to plant a few well placed kisses over said frown.

"Hey!" Hawke protested, trying to keep a straight face at the sight of the flailing elf. Isabela was a hard woman to dislodge when she got clingy, he knew that too well. "How about we listen to the broody elf and run for our lives?"

"More running," Anders sighed. "If I knew there was this much running in my future I never would have left the Wardens. The darkspawn are just not that into sprinting."

"Maybe you should blow less things up?" Isabela suggested, letting go of the now slightly flushed elf.

"I didn’t do it," the mage said, looking innocent as he broke into a run. 

"It was me," Hawke admitted, following Isabela and Anders closely, while Fenris brought up the rear and tried to recover his wits. "And why are you here?"

"Because word was out your ship sank, you unbelievable moron," she shouted angrily over her shoulder. "And then they reported people that might have been you negotiating passage in Refuge, and I didn’t know if you had been sold off for slaves or dumped into the ocean because obviously you two boys are incapable of looking after yourself."

"I told you you’re not nearly as selfish as you pretend," Anders gasped happily.

"Take that back or it’s the hold for you," Isabela protested, quickening her pace as they approached the docks.

He had missed this, Hawke thought to himself as he ran. Maker’s breath but he had missed his friends. 

Maybe it was time to do a little something about that.


	19. Chapter 19

The scream was sudden, choked and filled with more emotions than it could express. Anders let go of Hawke and dropped to the bed, panting harder than he’d done when they escaped Carastes.   
  
"That was a lot faster than normal," Hawke mused, freeing himself from the tangled sheets so he could run his fingers over the sweaty, trembling mage. Isabela had graciously agreed to lend them her cabin for a private talk, but talking had turned to touching and things went south from there. Which he supposed Isabela had anticipated, judging from her smirk when she made the offer.  
  
"It’s different without Justice," the mage admitted once he had caught his breath. "Before it was like having sex in front of your disapproving older brother who did running commentary before he grew bored enough to ignore what was going on. Andraste’s merciful tits it was awful hard to get off sometimes."  
  
"Maker that’s an image," Hawke laughed, still far from finished himself as he rubbed up against the mage. "I’m surprised you could even get it up."  
  
"You know me," Anders smiled lazily. "I thrive on doing what I’m told not to." His hand slid down, playing lazily with Hawke.  
  
"So if I told you to roll over on your back because I wanted to watch your face while I fucked you, you wouldn’t do it?" Hawke nipped at the mage’s neck teasingly.  
  
"I might…" Anders wiggled his eyebrows a bit, adopting a very thoughtful look. "Just for you."  
  
"Good," the rogue smirked, shifting one of Ander’s legs over his shoulder. Once he’d quickly prepared the way he pushed inside, sighing in relief as he buried himself deeply. "Maker, that’s soft," he sighed in pleasure.  
  
"Not the word I’d use," gasped the mage, wrapping his legs around Hawke. "But take your time; I’m in no hurry for the outside world."  
  
"Isabela will want her cabin back eventually though." Words mumbled into Anders lips between kisses.  
  
"Oh she will. Once she’s shown Fenris every other part of her… ship. I get the feeling that her bed is the final stop."  
  
"Isabela and Fenris?" Hawke laughed and thrust a little harder, pleased at how the mage bucked up against him.  
  
"Andraste’s ass you’re a tease," came the gasped reply. "And yes, didn’t you see them?"  
  
"But still… Isabela and Fenris…"  
  
"They slept together back in Kirkwall."  
  
"Maker, you’re joking," Hawke exclaimed, catching Anders’ wrists, pressing them against the bed.  
  
"No, I’m not, honestly," the mage squirmed and grinned up at the puzzled rogue. "They even talked about it. You were right there."  
  
"I thought they were joking," Hawke said in horror. "You know how Isabela is; I thought she was having a laugh at my expense."  
  
"No, no laugh. She finally bagged the pointy, glistening elf."  
  
"But she never… when we thought he was dead…"  
  
"It’s Isabela, you know her, she talks less about how she feels than you do Hawke."  
  
"Well, if so she’s sleeping with the right man. Fenris is not one to talk about his feelings." And Maker didn’t he know it.  
  
"Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t," Anders added, rather pointedly.  
  
Hawke shut him up with a kiss and a thrust. But the words did not turn less true for that.  
  
Later, he promised himself. They’d talk later.  
  
…  
  
Later arrived when they were both sticky and tangled in sheets Isabela would probably yell at them for messing up. They were new. Blue instead of mustard. Hawke liked them, they showed off Anders’ golden ruffle where he had collapsed on the bed. Still, even if she yelled it would had been worth it. Completely.  
  
"So I guess we’re safe now?" Hawke finally said, reluctant to ruin the moment, but unable to stay quiet.  
  
"As safe as safe can be," Anders replied lazily, burrowing back into the pillows. "Barring sudden storms, Qunari dreadnoughts, pirate raiders, randy whales, Tevinter dragonriders…"  
  
"Tevinter whatnow? Does that even exist?" Hawke gave the mage a horrified look. The thought of dragons swooping in on them hadn’t even occurred to him.  
  
"Maker I hope not," Anders laughed.  
  
"Too bad," Hawke mused once the joke had been revealed. "I’d want one."   
  
"You would too, wouldn’t you? And then you’d get airsick and curse the day you were born." The mage patted Hawke’s shoulder in sympathy.  
  
"Probably," the rogue admitted, glad the seas were calm enough. "How are you holding up? Really?"  
  
"I’m assuming you’re talking about justice, not the afterglow," Anders sighed, making himself comfortable on Hawke’s shoulder. "I feel a bit like I’m on the tail end of the summer squirts. Emptied out of everything and a bit more besides, filled with vague aches and pains and yet there is this nagging sense of relief that at least the worst bit is over. I feel lightheaded. Lonely too I suppose." The last admission came reluctantly.  
  
"Not alone though."   
  
"I know. Thank you for… well, everything I suppose. I have no idea what I would do without you." The admission came with a sigh at the end.  
  
"Probably get into far less trouble." Hawke’s grin was infectious.  
  
"That’s a fair point," Anders admitted. "But… you promised you’d tell me later and the question’s been eating me. What did happen up there in the tower? Well, apart from the explosion, collapse and panicked running. That part I’ve got."  
  
"What do you remember?" Hawke asked warily.  
  
"Getting naked," the mage admitted with a grimace. "Not going to forget that in a hurry, Andraste’s dimpled ass that woman was leering at me. Then grayness. The shift into the Fade. Like falling asleep with your eyes open. Losing control in there like always, a helpless passenger under Justice’s control. And then… pain. The pain of every act I had committed. Everything that Justice had forced me to do, and almost do. What Vengeance had done. Things that were not Just. In the fade, memories like that hurt as badly as a sword through your gut."   
  
Hawke held the mage tighter, waiting until the moment had passed.  
  
"You don’t fight with weapons in there," Anders explained once he had stopped shivering, "You fight with ideas. Belief. Faith. Will. That was the plan I came up with, to confront Justice with the truth of what he was becoming. Something that was not Justice any longer. To make him listen to the truth, And in the face of that he decided to let go. To give up on Vengeance and return to the Fade."  
  
Choice. It was an insane plan relying on friendship and respect rather than force. Hawke had to admit being impressed. And infuriated. If Anders had told him that this was the plan he would have slapped him upside his fool head.  
  
"I felt him release his grip," the mage continued, voice hardly a whisper. "Well, not release exactly. We were so intermingled that wasn’t really possible. That’s where Cantilla came in. Helping to force the issue, make sure we were kept apart and just didn’t flow back into one another like puddles. Everything was working fine, but then I started falling and things faded into black. The next thing I remembered is bouncing on Fenris’ shoulder wondering why the walls were coming down."  
  
"Things didn’t go as planned," Hawke admitted. "Cantilla… the reason why she had agreed to help you was because she wanted Justice. She had no plans to let him loose, this was all a trap so she could have her very own spirit of Justice/Vengeance to do research on. There were these… ghosts I suppose. Once the ritual started. Children. Victim of her sacrifices."  
  
"Fascinating," Anders interrupted. "The veil must have been torn badly enough for them to take visible shape, just like in Bartrand’s house.  
  
"They kept asking for Justice and Maker, I’m an idiot," Hawke confessed. "I almost let her go through with what she had planned because I figured that I wanted you whole and intact more than I wanted Justice free. I almost let her get away with it."  
  
"Justice was my friend." Words filled with reproach, and Anders pulled away from Hawke’s shoulder.  
  
"I know, I’m not proud of it myself." Hawke didn’t like admitting to these things, but he had promised himself that right now the truth was coming out. Now or never. "I blamed him for everything. For ruining our lives. For making you unhappy. For urging you to throw away your life in a hopeless battle. For being an obstinate idiot. For… you get the idea," he sighed. "I told myself that if it wasn’t for him, you didn’t have to risk your life like that. To be involved in the mage underground, running interference with the Templars…" Hawke shifted a bit so he could look straight at the mage, even if that meant facing that hurt look.   
  
Anders didn’t say anything, he kept waiting for him to finish.  
  
"But," Hawke continued before he lost his nerve, "That’s when I realized that was the man I wanted. The man who wouldn’t back down, no matter the odds. Who wouldn’t accept the condemnation of the world. That was the Anders I fell in love with, and I suppose I fell a bit for Justice too. If it hadn’t been for losing control, and Vengeance becoming more dominant, I… I could have lived with what you were. I could have loved you for what you were, abomination bits and all."  
  
Anders was blushing now, looking as if he didn’t quite know what to say. So he settled for a change of subject. “I didn’t think you knew I was active in the mage underground,” he said softly.  
  
"We found letters scattered sometimes," Hawke said, happy for the lighter subject. "Next time sign them with something a bit more imaginative than ‘A’. Get a codename or something."  
  
"We tried that, but it all felt so terribly melodramatic," the mage sighed, rolling his eyes. "I mean I just couldn’t see myself as Stormcrow or something, no matter what Selby said."  
  
"So I stabbed her." The change back to serious was quick, before Hawke could regret it.  
  
"What! Selby? Oh, you mean Cantilla." Anders gave Hawke a horrified look. "You stabbed her?"  
  
"Don’t make that face, she was trapping Justice, it was all I could think of," the rogue admitted." Stab first, ask questions later. Isabela would be proud. "She should have died," he muttered. Was he losing his touch?"  
  
"A blood mage dies hard."  
  
"So I noticed," Hawke winced. "She turned on me, and I’d never felt anything like it. She was just too strong, too desperate. I was… dying." The admission made him feel nauseous. "She was draining me to heal herself, and then Justice intervened. I suppose he couldn’t have hated me that much since he saved my life. Stepped between her and me. Stopped the drain. She turned on him instead; I think she tried to… eat him. Or something. Last I saw he was vying for control, trying to take over her while she was trying to drain him. I think her body gave out in the end; she wasn’t young, and those energies… Maker, I had carried you from there by then, but I could still feel them."   
  
"Justice never hated you. Disapproved of you perhaps," Anders chided gently.  
  
"Oh everybody disapproves of me." Hawke rolled his eyes.  
  
"Please, be serious for once. I need to know. What happened to Justice?" The mage reached out, cupping Hawke’s cheek in his hand, forcing the rogue to look at him.  
  
"I’m not sure" Hawke admitted. "He saved my life, and that was Justice. Not Vengeance. If it had been, I think he would have been less inclined to be charitable if what you said before was true."  
  
"He wanted revenge on you," Anders nodded. "I don’t think he would have saved you, no." He looked slightly nauseous at that thought. "So you think he will be alright? Justice?"  
  
"There is no way she could have survived both my dagger in her back, and the explosion. She’s most likely dead, which means that Justice is back in the fade. Like we wanted to." Hawke wanted, no, he needed a happy ending. Just this once.  
  
"I hope so. I just didn’t think it would feel this empty. I would have liked to say goodbye."  
  
"It will pass in time." Hawke hoped so.  
  
"I guess. I wouldn’t be alive without you. No, honestly Hawke, I wouldn’t want to be alive without you." Anders leaned in and kissed the rogue softy, so very gently and unlike their normal passionate embraces.  
  
"Are you getting mushy on me?" Hawke raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I guess I am. Are you going to joke it off again with some sandwich poetry?"  
  
"I… Not this time. It’s tempting but… Maker, I nearly lost you. Twice. Or more if you count a dozen angry slavers. But we never really… talked that much, did we? Back in Kirkwall."  
  
"I guess we didn’t. About some things at least. Just thinking of them brought Justice out, and I wasn’t… I guess I wasn’t sure about how you would react to the rest. I kept wanting you to leave, and every time I opened my mouth to make that happen I regretted it."  
  
"You talked a lot more than me. You poured your heart out to me the first night we met as I recall. I remember thinking ‘Maker, why is he telling me all this?’"  
  
"I guess I had to tell someone or crack completely. You felt… sympathetic, A fellow refugee who had also lost a lot, and with a sister who was an apostate." Anders looked a bit embarrassed at the memories.  
  
"So you weren’t trying to get into my pants then?" Hawke asked in disbelief.  
  
"Maker no, I was trying to scare you off!" Anders gave him a teasing shove. "Didn’t you understand that, what with the whole I’m an abomination with a tragically dead tranquil boyfriend part?"  
  
"I just thought you were bad at flirting." Slowly they were heading down the funny slope again. Seriousness hurt in too large doses.  
  
"Good point, but I generally don’t flirt with men, believe it or not. Women always seemed… softer I guess. Gentler. Certainly prettier," Anders teased.   
  
"Hey!" Hawke protested. "And have you met Aveline?"  
  
"Don’t you remember me confessing my undying love for her once?" Anders managed to look both solemn and silly at the same time.  
  
"Oh yes, that insane game of Diamondback. I had managed to forget that. Maker but I was drunk," Hawke groaned.  
  
"So were we all."  
  
"Didn’t you call her freckles lickable?" Hawke had a vague memory of that, Maker he hoped it hadn’t been him.  
  
"Andraste’s ass I did not," Anders protested. "If I did I would still sport the bruises."  
  
"You are a lucky man."  
  
"I know I am. But more at love than cards."  
  
"That is very true," Hawke admitted. "So what now?" He had found that seriousness worked best if you jumped into it quickly, like a cold tub.  
  
"I would like to give you what you deserve," Anders sighed, placing a finger over Hawke’s lips when the rogue showed signs of wanting to interrupt. "You deserve a proper lover. A home. A chance to raise a family. Your little deserted island if that’s what you like. I would really like to be what you want. But I can’t do it."  
  
"Screw what I deserve," Hawke managed to interrupt by nipping at Anders’ finger. "I’m abysmally bad at managing families, I grow crazy from the quiet life. You do what you need to do and I will be there at your side. It is as simple as that."  
  
"Is it? Is it really that simple?" the mage asked, searching for doubts in the other man’s face. He found none. "Then, war it is." He paled a little when he said it, as if the reality of the situation was landing on his shoulders all at once.  
  
"I figured as much," Hawke said, smiling a little at the other man’s serious face. He should not. He really should not. But it was impossible to resist. "Sooo," the rogue drawled, "want a sandwich?"  
  
He was a fast dodge, but not fast enough to avoid the pillow aimed at his head.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Anders' point of view.

One thing that always amazes me is how Hawke looks a decade younger when he is asleep. The years fall away when he relaxes, erasing wrinkles and loss, leaving him looking like the day I met him. I wonder if he thinks the same of me. Probably not. Sleep is different for a mage. In some ways it is as real a part of our lives as wakefulness. And as filled with danger, temptation and bitey monsters.  With Hawke I don’t know what he is dreaming about, but I know one thing; even in the grip of the worst nightmare he is safe. Always safe. It is enough to hug him until he relaxes, never waking, never remembering what haunted him come morning. He is not a mage, and sometimes, despite myself, I am happy for that. I’ve gone through this with Karl and… once is enough.   
  
Karl. The thought of him drives me from our cramped bed. Bunk? Or whatever it is supposed to be. Glorified bench with a blanket?   
  
It’s hard finding clothes in the darkness, but I don’t want to wake Hawke and I don’t want his company. Not now. I do however want his pants, they don’t fit exactly right, but my Tevinter robes doesn’t come with pants because apparently mages in desert climates likes to show a bit of leg and keep their dangly bits cool. Great back there. Not so great out on the sea where the breeze is cold and I run the risk of flashing everybody at the first strong gust of wind. My coat calls to me in the darkness and I pick it up. The feathers rustle quietly and the leather smells comfortingly like an old friend. I had forgotten all about leaving it on Isabela’s ship in Llomerryn, and I’m glad she kept it. One person that had faith I’d be back to collect it. Or maybe she was just too lazy to hawk it. It would probably be worth a bit to the right buyer. A real relic, as worn by the renegade apostate when he blew up the Chantry and started the war. Huh. I wonder if they’ll make replicas of it.   
  
I still miss my old blue one. I just couldn’t get rid of the smell of Gaatlock, creating the explosives was a smelly, stinky process and I couldn’t risk getting exposed. So it had to go. And then the black felt… fitting I suppose. No more sunny smiles and sky-blue coat. What was it Merrill had called it? Lively. Like a crow in the middle of an anting. Cute. Cute little blood mage. Mustn’t forget that. Still miss her. Still wish I could have saved her from herself, but who am I to talk about mistakes? One arrogant bastard probably. Still… blood magic. Maker is there ever an excuse for that? Orsino… even you. I wish you weren’t dead so I could punch you. Hard.  
  
The wind ruffles hair and feathers both as I step out on the deck, the moon turning the calmish seas to liquid silver. The deck is quiet, the second watch is smoking quietly some distance away and there’s nothing to distract my thoughts as I lean against the railing. Karl. If there was anything I truly resented Justice for, it was that he robbed me of the ability to grieve. I couldn’t afford to grieve Karl. Every time the thoughts strayed his way, the anger came. The memories. The feeling in my gut when I saw him turn around, the brand blazing on his forehead. When I heard him beg me to kill him. When the dagger sunk in. I didn’t dare to get angry. Not that angry. Not with Justice. Not with Vengeance.  
  
I wanted to kill them. I wanted to just take my rage to the Gallows and raze it to the ground. Vengeance was born in the Chantry that night. Born when I saw what they had done and my fight became as much taking vengeance on the Templars for what they had done, as fighting for the rights and freedom of mages. If Hawke hadn’t been there I would have become like Orsino or any of the frightened mages we had to kill when they turned to blood magic. I would have opened the gate fully and become a true abomination, a creature only intent on destroying as much as it could before it was destroyed in turn. Before I was killed. Hawke saved my life that night. I wonder if he knows. Probably not. There was more than one reason I blew up the Chantry. Going full circle. Ending it where it began. I was half expecting Hawke’s knife in the back, ending me like I ended Karl. It would have been fitting.  
  
But at least now I’m free to grieve. Free to think back of all the horrible things without feeling anything more than the normal human urge to do something about it. Hawke would laugh if I told him I never dared to get too emotional back in the day, but it was true. What came out were slips, things said, bitten down, choked on. Jokes were safe, even passion once Justice had warmed enough to Hawke to quiet down. But, writing was still the safest way to deal with anger, to tell Justice that I was doing something. Something that might help. That wouldn’t get us killed. Manifesto. Lifeline.   
  
Maker I’m morose tonight, good thing he’s not awake to see it. Just me and my old friend the moon. Wish I could toast it. Wish I could toast the memory of Karl. Wish I could get drunk. Losing control would feel really good right now. Haven’t dared to do that since Justice. But Isabela doesn’t allow alcohol on her ship. Apparently that’s why she keeps getting drunk when she’s on dry land. She’s an odd lady. Never could figure her out. Should probably be jealous, but she always made it so obvious that she was just his friend. With benefits. I wonder if she did it just so I would treat her for free. Wouldn’t want him catching anything. She knew I loved him well before either of us had realized it.  
  
It feels like I have seen enough naughty bits to last me a lifetime. Made it easy enough to stay celibate those first years in Kirkwall. Fantasizing about what couldn’t be. Wonder if Seneshal Bran ever learned his lesson? Good to have someone that influential in your debt. Couldn’t just rely on my friends, even though between Hawke, Aveline and Varric, things were remarkably safe. The clinic was still too important. That place… it feels like a dream, or maybe this feels like one. Is something ending or beginning? There is a hole in my heart that wants to know.  
  
"Mage."  
  
The deep voice interrupts my brooding like a punch. Fenris. Fenris standing next to me, half dressed, Lyrium tattoos catching the moonshine. Disturbing. Makes any mage want to reach out and touch. My fingers itch, so I flush and turn away, looking at the waves instead. To my surprise he leans against the railing next to me.   
  
Neither of us speaks for a few minutes. It gets to the point where I start running possible sentences through my head. ‘So, here to try to kill me…. again?’ seems a bit too confrontational. ‘Sooo, you’re sleeping with Isabela now,’ needlessly personal. Especially since I know I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from making a joke that if he wants to, I have a cream for that rash. ‘Nice moon tonight,’ sounds like I’m flirting, and ‘Why are you here,’ sounds like a challenge and Maker I can’t just stand here trying to outbrood the elf. That would be like trying to beat Varric at storytelling, it just can’t be done. I can’t stay silent that long and already my glower has lost its shine.  
  
"You are making faces," Fenris remarks rather dryly.  
  
"Am I? I guess I am," I say, no doubt making another face. "I’m just trying to think up a way to talk to you."  
  
"And how is that working out for you?" The face is serious, but maker preserve me, I think Fenris is discovering sarcasm. Or humor. Or something.  
  
"Not good," I admit. "I’m sorry I called you a wild dog back in Kirkwall." The apology surprises both of us, so I continue. "I was just terrified of you."  
  
There is no protest so my words start coming out on their own accord, pent up for far too long. I need to confess to someone, and a wolf is as good as any cat I suppose. Talks as little.  
  
"I’ve been hiding it behind words and confident stances, but the truth is, I’m terrified of a lot of things." From the look on Fenris face I can se he believes that a bit too readily for my taste. "I’m cursed with knowing and seeing what I should do, yet I’m too afraid to shoulder the responsibility and actually get on with doing it. Even back in the Circle, Karl, no you wouldn’t know Karl, he was made tranquil before I met you, but… we talked. A lot. About freedom. About how the oppression of mages was wrong. I didn’t mean to fall in love with him. After all he was older than me, a bit stuffy, a proper enchanter type of mage but he was just so sure of himself. I admired that. I needed that. Me, I was sure of nothing but the fact that I wanted out, just a reckless apprentice with a distaste for walls. And he… kept talking about walls of another kind."  
  
Can’t talk to Hawke about this. You don’t discuss your ex- with your current boyfriend, even I know that. Fenris neither moves nor speaks, so my story grows more comfortable.    
  
"He talked about an oppression that was not just locking us up like slaves, but a whole system based on the misconception that magic in itself is evil. There’s nothing bad about magic, just like there’s nothing bad about a knife. It’s the people that use them. Karl stayed, not because he liked the Circle, but because he felt that the important step was to change people’s preconceptions about mages. For him, the only way to do that was to prove that we could be relied upon. That we could help. Heal. Fight. Be trusted. He kept talking about how much we could add to Thedas, and I… all I could see was what I wanted to do. Be free. Find a girl. Use magic when I wanted to. What he talked about was hard and tedious and I couldn’t have cared less."  
  
"You said you fell in love with him." The first question from the elf was spoken like an accusation, but aimed at the waves and not me. Thank the Maker for that.  
  
"I did," I admit. "His conviction was addictive. I kept escaping; he kept taking care of me after the Templars were through punishing me. He was not my type, or, well what I thought was my type, but… you wouldn’t understand. Things are different in the Circle. Strange."  
  
"Tell me," he asks, and of course I answer. I surprise myself with wanting to make him understand, not just leave me alone.  
  
"Imagine a large building filled with a random assortment of people with just one thing in common, never being allowed to leave. We’re all we have, but we can’t have relationships. Or marry. Or have children, or any semblance of a family or normal life. It’s fun enough to sneak around when you’re a young apprentice and happy to just cop a feel in a broom closet. But when you’re older, you want more. You want to be able to go to sleep in the same bed and wake up together. You want to be able to smile and hug and be close without fearing that the Templars will use your affection as leverage. I’ve seen mages punished because their lovers have done something wrong. So yes, I loved Karl, yes, I slept with him, but we couldn’t have a relationship." The anger comes, as well as the grief and for once I can let it. I don’t need to choke it down for fear of doing something rash. I can stand here, thinking back, feeling absolutely wretched and nothing will happen. Except something does. Fenris talks.  
  
"I… understand how that is," he starts, haltingly, in angry growls and mutters. "I could never understand how mages could be kept like slaves. My mind could not grasp it. Would refuse to understand. A mage was power incarnate. Never helpless. Always in control. But when I choose to side with the Templars and we stormed the gallows…" the elf’s voice turned low and bitter as he spat the last words out. "The mages there. They cringed from us. I know that particular fear and desperation when I see it."  
  
"And yet…" I’m at a loss for words, afraid to say the wrong thing, because for once in my life I don’t want to be too glib and break apart what manner of fragile understanding have begun to form between us.  
  
"I know," he growls, tattoos flaring in the darkness. "It is a sickness this hate. But without it, what have I?"   
  
I can’t answer that question, and thank Andraste’s saving grace that he doesn’t expect one. He just simmers quietly next to me until I break the silence.  
  
"You were right about me for one thing" I say, bringing the subject back to me. Give him a bit of a respite. "I am weak. That’s why I invited Justice to meld with me." He settles down somewhat once I start talking. So I continue. "I had been conscripted into the Grey Wardens, it was either that or death or horrible punishments, so what’s a bit of danger and darkspawn in comparison, right?"  
  
No reply. To be honest I didn’t expect one.  
  
"It’s a responsibility, that’s what it is. More than I was ready for. I made friends, well, Justice of course, and the Warden Commander. Never understood how he did it. Making decisions that meant some people had to die while others lived. How did he make those choices? Maybe he didn’t like it anymore than I did. He left. Went off chasing the woman of his dreams, or, well nightmares as he sometimes said. Never came back. I kept talking to Justice, he inhabited a corpse at the time so we tended to stay outdoors because of the stench, and people kept expecting me to sober up. To step up. Be a leader. And Justice kept arguing that it wasn’t enough that I escaped, what about the other mages? I knew I should do something, anything, but I was afraid. Taking responsibility for my own mistakes? I could do that. Reluctantly. For the lives and happiness of others? Not so easy. Maker I’ve seen so many dead. That’s what a Grey Warden is. A dead man walking surrounded by the bodies of his friends. I could look around and know that every single person there that I knew and liked was destined for a short life and a painful horrible death. Every single one."  
  
"It was never about the cat, was it?" Someone must have told the elf that story. Probably Varric. Probably trying to make me look sympathetic. A lost cause if there ever was one.  
  
"No. It wasn’t about the cat," I admit with a sigh, pulling the coat tighter around my shoulders. "It was about Justice. His body was rotting. And he had a surety I could never aspire to. He knew what was Right and what was Wrong. No doubts. No fear. Everything I missed. I thought… maybe it would work. Maybe we would both be something better together. Friends. A willing possession. I wasn’t destined for a long life, might as well make the most of it. Bring some justice to Thedas."  
  
"To mages you mean." Fenris sounds like he’s eating glass and hating it.  
  
"Not only. But… you only tend to see what you know. Justice really is a bit blind. I didn’t realize that until Tevinter. You hear the stories of the evil virgin-sacrificing blood mages and you cannot help but think they are made up. Exaggerated. People telling stories about crazy cruel mages because that’s how the Chantry paints us. If they’re lying about me and my friends, they’re probably lying about everything else too. And then I get there and everything is true. Everything you told me." I look at the elf, who to my surprise doesn’t look away. "Blood magic. Slaves. Abuse. And all the mages did it and they didn’t even understand why I was upset." My voice cracks in anger. "They didn’t even get what was wrong about it. They did it because they could, and that was all the reason they needed."  
  
"I watched you. Carefully." Fenris reply comes reluctantly, harsh like dull blades. "If you had bent to their ways I would have killed you. But I saw the disgust in your eyes. The revulsion. You are not weak. I was wrong about you."  
  
I’m not sure how to feel about that, so I settle for asking “Why bother killing me and not the others?”  
  
"Hawke is not in love with them. I would not have him hurt."   
  
"Neither would I."  
  
There is silence between us for a little, perhaps the sounds of a truce forming. Something we have in common except our scars and disgust with ourselves and the world.  
  
"Do you intend to drag him with you into your senseless war?" Fenris asks at last, but the words are more tired than angry. Seems even the elf has limits to his outrage.  
  
"It is not senseless," I protest. "And he dragged himself in." There was no stopping Hawke once he had decided what he wanted to do, I knew that too well. The only recourse was lying to him, and… I had done that once already. Not again. I keep wondering what would have happened if I had just told him what I was planning to do in Kirkwall. Bu no man can go back and change his past.  
  
"He does that," Fenris agreed, with the look of a man that was echoing my thoughts. What if. The two most dangerous words there ever were to a man’s peace of mind.  
  
"I used to be like you," I say, deciding to take a chance and be direct. "All the wrongs in the world. All the horror. All the oppression. All of it mattered only when it was about me. My freedom. My revenge. My future. I’m trying to change that. No crutches this time. No help. Just me. Anders. Just a man."  
  
"Just a mage." The words are a reflex, but the bile is still there.  
  
"Yes. Is that going to be a problem?"  
  
"You are not the only one trying to find ways to change. It is hard." His fingers are almost making gouges in the railing. At last he’s not glowing.  
  
"It is," I admit, because Maker help me it is. "He helps."  
  
"He does. And I thought you said no crutches."  
  
"He’s more of a cane," I muse. "A walking stick really. Helping me hobble along."  
  
Fenris actually breaks out into a chocked chortle that I’m fairly certain is a laugh. “He is losing weight. Don’t break him.”  
  
"Or you’ll break me?" The question is out before I can stop it.  
  
"Yes." There are no doubts there.  
  
"Fair enough," I reply, and to my surprise I mean it. It’s an odd comfort knowing that someone is keeping watch on me so I won’t go too far, but I saw what happened to Orsino.   
  
I won’t have that happen to me.


	21. Chapter 21

**Epilogue**

[The Siren’s Call II]

The horizon was a brilliant blue on blue where the lighter sky met the darker ocean, no trace of land or ship. The ship raced steadily across the waves in the brisk wind, strong enough to give them speed, but not strong enough for the rolling waves to truly be a nuisance. Still, Fenris clung to the mast, unused to the odd swaying of the crow’s nest, wary of being taken off guard. Isabela showed no such compulsions where she stood; leaning over the edge, face in the wind and a smile that went from here to the horizon.  
  
"This is what freedom is, Fenris, this is what I was talking about."  
  
The elf did not lose his frown, but he let go of the mast, echoing her stance, trying to understand what she was talking about.  
  
"Look," she laughed, placing an arm around his shoulders, ignoring the slight stiffening it caused. "There is nothing out there but us, and the ship, and up here I can feel it all. This is me. My body. This ship. These sails. The creaking of her hull. I can feel how she leans into the wind, the shifting waves, and the smell of the ocean. No chains. No walls. No boundaries. On land I am a whore, a drunkard and a duelist, here I am a queen. Always a captain though," she added with a smirk.   
  
They had spent the night talking, reluctantly, haltingly, the pair of them unused to sharing. They hoarded their feelings like beggars hoarded coppers, but now in the daylight it all seemed like a dream. Looking at her, Fenris could not imagine her as a young girl, sold off to be a wife before she was ready. He could not imagine her being trapped by anything or anybody; she had broken her chains so thoroughly he could not even see the marks.  
  
Except sometimes. At night. When the smile faded.  
  
She knew he would not tell anybody.  
  
"I see water and the sky, but no freedom," he rasped, more puzzled than annoyed. "I’ve been on a ship before; it has nothing to do with being free for me." Cramped holds. Unwashed bodies. Denarius escaping, leaving him behind. Not free. Thrown away.  
  
"That is because you’ve just been a passenger silly," Isabela laughed, the wind tearing at her hair, the sunlight casting reflections in her jewelry. "You’ve been dragged through life by one boat or the other, but you’ve never really sailed. Other people have held your rudder, but…" Her eyes flashed teasingly, the joke dirty but her intentions pure. "…I intend to teach you how to sail."  
  
Fenris was quiet for a moment, watching her face, willing himself to find faults and causes for anger. To rile against the world and stalk off, finding refuge in a dark corner somewhere. But there were no corners or cobwebs up here in the sky, just the swaying mast and a dark-skinned, curvy woman with a smile like the sun. He looked up, into the glaring heavens, shadowing his eyes.  
  
"I think I would like that very much."  
  
  
[Denerim]  
  
The Royal Office. The last refuge of sanity in a castle filled with pomp and circumstance. Outside the doors, King Alistair had to live up to what his advisors said he was, had to act the King, be the Leader, the Uniter, the Rebuilder. And a lot of other words with capital letters in them, something which he had to admit he wasn’t very fond of. But inside his office he could relax, let his shoulders slump a little, surrounded by mementoes of past adventures and friends. If someone was invited for an audience in the Royal Office (capitalized, always capitalized), it was a sign that the King trusted them with who he really was.  
  
Just a man trying to do the right thing for the right reasons, never quite sure if he was managing to pull it off.  
  
"I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you accepted my offer to return to the Fereldan army," the King started, rising from his messy desk to approach the woman standing at attention in front of it. Tall. As tall as him. At least. Oooh boy.   
  
"I am only surprised that the offer was made after the events in Kirkwall, your Majesty. I would have thought that decision was taken from me when Knight-Commander Meredith was killed," Aveline said, keeping a carefully neutral tone.  
  
"Alistair. Not your Majesty. In here that’s the rule, and I am the King so I get to make the rules." Oh if only that was true. Follow rules more like it. He had quickly found out that the more powerful you were, the more things you were supposed to do. And change was not one of them.  
  
"Does that actually work, your Majesty?" The redhead raised one eyebrow, giving the King a skeptical look.  
  
"Nooo," the King admitted, scratching the back of his head. "But I keep trying. I like Alistair. It’s a good name. I’m afraid one day I’ll wake up and think I was named your Majesty or something. Try it out. Please?"  
  
"As you wish… Alistair."  
  
"You said it; I can’t believe you actually said it. No wonder you had the reputation you had in Kirkwall." The King refrained from pumping his fist in victory, because you had to keep some dignity. Well, a little.   
  
"I am almost afraid to ask," the redhead replied, relaxing slightly.  
  
"You did your duty regardless whether it would annoy the nobles. You were the protector of the common people, the scrupulously honest Captain of the Guard, the one force for order in Kirkwall."  
  
"I dislike entitled men born with privilege thinking they are above the law."  
  
"I am the son of a star-struck maid and an indiscreet man who just happened to be king, I can sympathize." The King shrugged a little.  
  
"I served under your brother. He was a good man, for a king," the redhead admitted, with the smallest of smiles.  
  
"And I am glad to have you serve under me. Or, well," the blush came unbidden, "I mean with me, as an officer, and I understand you’re married?"  
  
"That I am. Very happily I might add."  Aveline showed no signs of having noticed the King’s blush.  
  
"Ah, well, good to know," Alistair said with a sigh, "that is good to know."  
  
Bugger.  
  
  
[Outskirts of Orlais]  
  
As stories went, Varric didn’t like stories with tragic endings that involved him. Honestly, he didn’t enjoy stories with him in any major role, period. He’d rather be the teller of tall tales than the hero coming to the rescue. Not to mention the fact that heroes tended to do a lot of running, something he avoided when he could. Planning was the key to any successful venture. Know where to go, whom to speak to, whom to bribe and whom could be threatened. And above all, where the nearest bolthole was located in case things would go sour. As they did once in a while. If all else failed, Bianca was always there to back him up.  
  
But, befriending the wrong man never paid off in the long run, and picking a side was woefully bad for business. Now he was on the run and as out of his element as he had felt in the Deep Roads. Sod it all, he should have taken Sunshine up on her offer to stay in Denerim. But at that point in time he had wanted to get as far away from the Hawke family as possible, because if there was one thing he was betting on, it was that in the end Hawke would come back for his sister. There would be war, and possibly Blondie would resurface and that would be bad for business. Not that Denerim had much of the sort, still recovering from the blight as it was. No, going to Orlais seemed like a much better option. Start over.  
  
In retrospect, not his best plan. With a gentle squeeze on Bianca’s trigger he sent a bolt hissing through the air, nailing a Templar to the wall. They were coming after him in force, and he’d been so used to having someone backing him up, that he was getting sloppy. Picking a fight when he should have run.  
  
"I assure you I would still be open to talking about this," he shouted, legging it for another corner. "Whatever you think I did, I’m just an innocent businessman." Ooh that had been a big enough lie to almost burn his tongue. Not that anybody was listening. "Oh people never learn, do they Bianca?" he sighed and petted the crossbow, bringing it up for another shot.  
  
Unfortunately for him, they really did learn. Or perhaps they bred smarter Templars in Orlais, because before he had a chance to squeeze the trigger, a slim, red-headed shadow stepped up behind him, knocking him cold.  
  
The last he heard as he was dragged away, was a softly accented female voice, speaking to his captors. “Bring him to the Seeker, she would want a word abou…” and then the blackness took him.  
  
  
[Brecilian Forest]  
  
"Come back here Feathers!" Merrill waved her arms about, which only seemed to encourage the mabari cub’s mad chase around the camp. The hare had a head start and could turn on the drop of a hat, but the mabari had enthusiasm on his side.  
  
"Oh no, not the tent," Bethany exclaimed in horror as the mabari zigged where the hare zagged, tumbling like a projectile into their half erected tent, tangling itself hopelessly.  
  
"Bad Feathers," Merrill chided as she ran over there, trying to untangled the frightened puppy. "We do not eat bunnies, they are cute and have floppy ears and most important of all, they run really, really fast."  
  
"I can’t believe you named him Feathers," Bethany groaned, leaning down to help her friend. "He’s as heavy on his feet as a nug."  
  
"I like Feathers. I always wanted a griffon."  
  
"He’s not a griffon."  
  
"How likely am I to find a griffon here? Don’t we need to go to the mountains then? I don’t like mountains. Or caves. I really don’t like caves anymore." The puppy finally freed itself, proceeding to rampage straight into Merrill’s lap, licking her face.  
  
"And you," Bethany scowled at the old mabari that had remained panting in the shadow of a tree. "Aren’t you supposed to know better? Be an example? I swear, brother taught you the worst habits."  
  
"I think that was Varric," Merrill offered, ears twitching slightly. "And Feathers is a much nicer name than Captain Woffles. Was he in the army too?"  
  
"No, he wasn’t." Bethany hunched down and scratched the old dog. He had grayed around the muzzle, but his bite was still worse than his bark. "But Carver wanted to be in the army when he named him."  
  
"I think he misses Aveline," Merrill suggested. "I know I do. The world is so much less safe now when she is not around. She was comforting. Like a great big tree you could sleep beneath."  
  
"I miss her too," Bethany sighed, petting Captain Woffles. "But we couldn’t stay in Denerim. It’s just too dangerous to be a mage there right now; we didn’t want to bring down the chantry’s wrath on King Alistair. It is better this way."  
  
She really hoped that was true, because the deeper they got into the forest, the worse her dreams were becoming. Oh Maker, she hoped her brother was safe. She hoped they all were.  
  
  
[Starkhaven]  
  
The prince of Starkhaven was pacing, anxiously awaiting news he suspected would amount to nothing. Again. Like last time. Andraste preached patience but his was running short. After taking back the throne that rightfully belonged to him, the fates had conspired to make his life difficult. The Starkhaven circle had erupted in open warfare and revolt, the surviving mages disappearing in the bowels of the city or the surrounding mountains. The Templars lacked leadership, and people distrusted them after news of what happened in Kirkwall had started seeping out.  
  
Even he was suspect in the eyes of some; his failure to slay that abomination that called itself Anders on the spot had been noted. There were whispers of his involvement in the explosion, and though he rooted out said rumors with vicious force, every single one of them was another nail in his heart.  
  
Elthina. The sisters. Countless others since then. Anders had a lot to answer for, but the renegade seemed to have disappeared from Thedas entirely. As had Hawke. So, he had decided on other plans.  
  
"They have been located." The voice came from the shadows, nearly causing Sebastian to jump.  
  
"Are you certain it’s them?" He could hardly keep his voice steady, but the Prince of Starkhaven could not afford to show weakness. That was between him and the Maker.  
  
"They are matching the descriptions."  
  
"Good," Sebastian smiled. "Bring them in."   
  
This was turning out to be not such a bad day after all.  
  
  
[Par Vollen]  
  
"The ship in question has passed through the Northern Straits unaccosted," Ashaad reported, still covered with dust from his journey.   
  
"Good. You have fulfilled your duty. Go with the Qun." The hornless Ben-Hassrath leaned back behind his desk, waiting until the scout had departed.  
  
Only when he was alone once more, did he lean forward, moving one of the pieces on the game board in front of him. Something akin to a smile graced his dour face.  
  
"Asit-tal-eb, Basalit-an," he mused quietly to himself as he viewed the pawns in front of him. "Asit-tal-eb."  
  
  
[The Uncharted Territories]  
  
The mist wrapped the trees in mystery, and turned the standing stones into immobile husks just waiting for a hapless passer-by to pounce on. This was not a place one lingered; it was a place of threat and spirits, a graveyard filled with too many dead to count. But some remained alive.  
  
“‘Tis pointless, I tell you,” the woman’s voice rung out, annoyed and to the point. She was thin and pale, with hair the color of ripe blackberries and a temper as sharp as their thorns.  
  
"You can feel it, same as I," the man replied patiently, running his fingers through the air. Tall, dark and lanky, with a solemn seriousness in the face of her prickliness. The ghosts played around his hand, reaching out, almost touching before they faded back into nothingness. The dead playing tag with the living.  
  
"I can feel it, yes, but that was not my objection.’ Tis pointless and obviously a trap." The woman clenched her staff and the ghosts fled, fearing her wrath.   
  
"Your mother has been alive for a decade, why choose now to set a trap for us?" The man reached out to caress her cheek, but she turned away, stomping through the stones.  
  
"Oh she is wily and patient, and no doubt she wants him." The words were spat over her shoulder, but then she halted and turned around again, marching back to the man so she could point a finger hard in his chest. "And you are a fool playing right into her hands."  
  
"He will be safe here," the man said, gently placing his hands on her bare shoulders. This time she let him touch her.  
  
"Of course he will," she scoffed, looking up at him. "As would you if you did not insist on your foolish little expeditions."  
  
"I left my responsibilities to Amaranthine behind; not my vows as a Grey Warden."  
  
"Oh now, did you not?" The laugh was sharp, but almost fond. "Then why the secrecy? Why not simply go back to your fool friends and run fool errands for the king of all fools?"  
  
"You know why," he sighed. "Because my place is here."  
  
"Obviously not since you keep leaving."   
  
"And coming back. Come with me this time Morrigan, let’s hunt some darkspawn, save some innocents and find out what your mother is planning that has the spirits in such an uproar. Like in the old days."  
  
"You are such a fool Amell." But a smile had crept unbidden to her lips. "I suppose ‘tis time that he learned how to look after himself."  
  
"The spirits will take care of him, and we will not be gone for long."  
  
"You always say that," she said with a roll of her eyes.  
  
"This time you will be along to remind me."  
  
The kiss was no less sweet for being expected.  
  
  
[On the Amaranthine Ocean]  
  
They were heading back home. Home. Hawke had lost too many of them already, maybe he should just stop thinking of any place as home. Would probably be better for both him and the hapless places he had brought ruin to. And yet… this felt like something close to it. Not the ship, even though he was almost getting used to the feeling of nausea and disorientation, but the people. Friends.  
  
He was standing near the stern, just watching life pass him by. Isabela, larger than life on land and doubly so on the ocean. In command. Ordering Fenris around, and Maker’s breath was that a smile on the dour elf’s face? It almost seemed like it.  There had even been a stalemate of sort between Fenris and Anders, the jabs and insults were there, but they were dull, softened by something Hawke didn’t pretend to understand. He was just glad it was there.  
  
War. That was they were heading back into. He’d told Anders many things that had been unsaid before, but he had told nobody what really happened on Par Vollen. What he had been told. Knowledge given came with a price. Was it a leash or a noose? He was reminded of a song he had heard one evening in the Hanged Man: ‘I am in need of nothing else, but rope enough to hang myself. Laughing through the gates of death I go.’  
  
He felt like that. He’d been given rope enough, but he could feel it chafing around his throat.   
  
War. Was Anders equal to the task he had set himself? Were any of them? Would his lover turn out like Orsino in the end, a voice of reason turning to madness and unreason when he thought everything was lost? This time he had the means. This time he could stop him. Quickly. Simply. Cleanly. No blood on his hands.  
  
The Qunari wand burned against his skin, he didn’t dare to leave it lying around so he had taken to carry it under his clothes. Like a hidden dagger. Aimed at Anders’ heart. Could he do this? Could he keep a cool head for the sake of Thedas? Was the Qunari right about him? Was their path the only sane one in an insane world? Was he truly Basvaarad as he had told them he was? Did he trust Anders that little?  
  
That was the question, wasn’t it. Trust. Love was one thing, but trust was harder. It wouldn’t hurt to keep it, would it? Just in case. Safely hidden. A dark little secret. It could save Anders’ life. In case things turned bad. It could get him out of there even if he refused to flee. No martyr. Just gone. And it would be on Hawke’s shoulders, but the mage would be alive. And alive was always good, right? Better than dead. Even if it was a death the mage might have chosen for himself.  
  
Trust. So blasted hard to give.  
  
But sometimes the hardest things were the only things worth doing.  
  
Looking around to see that nobody was paying attention to him, he pulled out the hidden wand, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lobbed it as far out to sea as he could. It hit the surface with a splash, just another fish seeking the sunshine. Then it sank.  
  
Hawke let all his doubts sink with it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in: Act V - Wheel of Fortune


End file.
